Afterwords
by RhiannonWrites
Summary: Brand new series! What if Sara and Grissom had been involved with one another all along, instead of only becoming so later on? A/U, obviously. Chapters are brief and set after the episodes they are named for. Will eventually span all 9 seasons. R&R!
1. 101 Cool Change

Author's Note: "Afterw(o)rds" is finally here! Obviously, it's a play on words--afterwords versus afterwards. Each short chapter is set during or immediately following the episode for which it is named, hence the title. Eventually, it will cover all of Sara and Grissom's time on CSI...with my own special A/U twist! Ah, the joys of endless watching and personal interpretation... Quotes from the episodes will be in italics.

Disclaimer: All quotes from episodes belong to CBS, et al. My imagination is mine and mine alone.

* * *

_Sara Sidle? Who's that?_

_She's a CSI out of San Francisco. She's a friend of mine, someone I trust..._

_I don't even have to turn around. Sara Sidle._

_That's me._

* * *

God, it was good to see her.

And not just because I needed a familiar face that was not _too_ familiar. Not just because I knew that she would handle things with the kind of scientific poise I appreciate. Sara Sidle is young and eager and brilliant, and I like that about her. But mostly, I needed to see her smile.

Catherine's smile is pretty, Nick's is infectious, and Warrick's, though rare, is always genuine when it appears. But when Sara Sidle smiles, the room lights up and the sun appears from behind the clouds. I know I sound besotted. Maybe I am a little—she's that rare combination of natural beauty and exceptional brains that actually holds my interest. But I just needed a friend today, which sadly, usually can't also be a coworker. Catherine and Jim are possible exceptions, depending on the day. But Sara is a former student, a CSI from a different state. She can be my friend, and at the end of the day, I don't have to be her boss. It's a bit of a relief.

I'm not sure how well I'm going to handle this supervisory responsibility. Teaching is my passion, to be sure, but there is more to this than mere instruction. I'm not a people person; I'm an entomologist. Insects don't cry or get angry or demand your approval. They're simple, and predictable. People are not.

I need something to take my mind off all of this.

Maybe I'll ask Sara to dinner.


	2. 102 Crate and Burial

Author's Note: Chapter two! Who would have thought you could get multiple chapters out of me in a single evening? Please keep in mind that the POV for all these chapters will switch back and forth, from Sara to Grissom to third person, past and present, based on what seemed appropriate for each post-episodic adventure. Enjoy!

* * *

_Who did Grissom handpick to work here?_

Did Grissom really think he could invite me to Vegas for an internal investigation and I would just leave afterward? I've been dying to work with this man, in this lab, for years, ever since he taught a graduate seminar I attended. No way am I going back to San Francisco now. The desert is my new best friend. When he asked me if I would consider staying, there was only one answer. Hell, yes.

First case after the investigation is over, and he pairs himself with me. I know Grissom thinks I'm smart, talented—though he threw me for a bit of a loop at the house.

* * *

_Excuse me, is my evaluation interrupting you?_

_No, no, no. I barely heard you._

_Glad I have a healthy ego..._

_I keep trying to be your star pupil._

_Sara, that was a seminar. This is real._

* * *

I know this is real. I've been a CSI for two years now. And we busted the case wide open—though it was thanks to the audio, which Nick got instead of me. Still, every case I get to work side by side with Gil Grissom is a case I'll never forget. He's smart and insightful and catches things everyone else misses—at least when it pertains to work. He's done a pretty good job of missing all my signals over the past three years that we've been "friends". I blame it on the phone and the impersonality of email.

When he touched me in the desert, as the helicopter whipped our hair into our faces, I could feel his genuine concern. He believes I'm a great scientist. I hope I don't ruin his impression of me by showing him the emotions I can't always hide, for the victims, for the dead. It was the one thing my supervisor in San Francisco always said: when I stuck to the science, I was great. When I got involved with the people, I was unpredictable. She was being kind.

But right now, there's only one person with whom I'm thinking about being involved.

Maybe I should ask him to dinner.


	3. 103 Friends And Lovers

Author's Note: This is going to be an epic-chaptered story, but the chapters are very, very short. So please don't die.

* * *

_Where are you going?_

_Away._

* * *

The roller coaster numbed him a little, and after his sixth ride, he even felt some of the tension loosen in his shoulders. But he could not let go enough to truly enjoy it, to let the thrill he loved run through his veins and send his adrenaline skyrocketing. Maybe adrenaline was not the chemical his body craved. Maybe he needed something else.

He found himself wandering the Strip, taking in the neon lights, the flushed, excited faces of tourists and the bored faces of residents pacing the sidewalks. After about ten blocks, he pulled out his phone, punched in a number he knew by heart. It rang three times before it was answered.

"How are you?"

He loved how she never said hello when he called. She would check her Caller ID, see that it was him, and pick up as if they were already in the middle of a conversation—a conversation that had started the day he dropped his lecture notes in front of her and she helped him pick them up with a smile and a firm handshake. She had impressed him by paying attention and taking copious notes; she had further impressed him with a few well-placed, insightful questions. When he had left San Francisco, she had stayed on his mind, and her first phone call to him was less than a week later, with an entomological question for a paper she was working on. They had talked at least twice a month ever since.

"I'm tired," he replied frankly. "This boy—he never would have killed the best friend he had if not for some unscrupulous drug dealer who knows just enough about the law to skate by. I hate guys like him."

"We all do," she said quietly, the soft West Coast lilt of her voice soothing him, as it so often did. "Where are you? I hear crowd noise."

"Wandering the Strip," he admitted. "I rode Death Trap six times tonight. I still feel on edge."

"Do you want to grab a drink or something?"

"No," he sighed. "That's probably not a good idea. I might find myself at a rave."

"What?"

"Looking for that punk. I don't want to lose my head tonight. I just wish I didn't have to think about it."

"Well, you could come over for a while. We could watch a movie, if you like. Movies are a good distraction. I'll make popcorn."

He was tempted. He shifted the phone to his other ear.

"Air popped or microwave?" he stalled.

She laughed. "Air popped? What kind of a chef do you think I am?"

He returned her laughter. "I can settle for microwave, I suppose. Air popped is healthier, though."

"Seriously, Grissom. I'm very not concerned about that. Just come on over."

"Uh, Sara?"

"What?"

"I don't know where you live."

"Oh, right. Yeah. Um, here, I'll text you the address. Are you taking a cab?"

"Probably. I left my car at the amusement park."

"Okay. I'll see you in a few."

She hung up without saying goodbye. He liked that, too.


	4. 104 Blood Drops

Author's Note: And...chapter four.

* * *

_You're kidding me, right? I'm a taxi service on the biggest case of the year?_

_Sara, I need one of us with that little girl._

_I am not good with kids._

* * *

_It's okay, Brenda. I'm not leaving you._

* * *

"So, still mad at me for making you a taxi service?" I leaned back against her couch, coffee clutched in one hand, the latest copy of the forensic science journal in my other. She walked slowly into the room from the kitchen, blowing steam off her own coffee mug.

"I'm not mad," she admitted. "Normally, kids and I are like oil and water—we don't mix, and it leaves a funny taste in my mouth. But something about that girl…"

"Abused children are one of my other major breaking points," I confessed. "Trust me, I wanted to stay with her, talk to her, make her feel safe. But I couldn't. You understand."

"Sure I do. But why me?" she asked, taking a sip of her coffee.

"I told you. I needed one of us with her." She lifted an eyebrow, and I just returned her gaze for a moment. Finally, it clicked.

"You meant one of us, you or me. Not one of us, a member of the team."

"Yeah. I needed someone with a clear head in there, and Catherine or Nick would have gotten too emotionally involved. Probably Warrick would have, too. You were an obvious choice."

I watched her swallow hard, swivel her head away. "Sara?"

"I got emotionally involved," she whispered. "When the social worker came to take her away, Brenda grabbed at my jacket. She wanted me to stay with her. And I did. I refused to leave, even though I could have. Even though I could have come back to work the biggest case I've had here yet; even though I could have come back to work another case with you. I stayed with the little girl who was breaking my heart."

I set my mug down slowly. "Why are you telling me this?"

She turned to me, and I was startled to see tears glistening in her dark eyes. "Please don't think less of me because I care."

"Sara!" I felt a little shocked. "Of course I don't think less of you." I cleared my throat, reaching for honesty. "Differently, maybe, but not less."

"I'm a good scientist," she declared, shifting closer to me, resting her hand on my knee. I was startled by the physical contact, but she just kept talking. "I'm a good CSI. But I have a heart, and I don't think that makes me a bad scientist. I just don't want you to start lumping me in with everyone else—all the others that you wouldn't trust a traumatized little girl with."

Slowly, I placed my hand over hers on my knee. She looked a little startled, and I realized she probably had not even known she was touching me. "Sara, I asked you here in the first place because I trust you. Finding out that you care about your cases is not going to mitigate that trust."

"I just care about what you think of me," she murmured, gently pulling her hand away. "I want to impress you."

"You already have," I told her. "Stop trying so hard."

She reached for her coffee. "Not sure that I can."

There was a subtle shift in the room, a tension even I could feel. Sara had occasionally made teasing or suggestive comments during the years of our friendship, and I had always taken them in stride. Flirting was always a casual thing for me; my work absorbed my attention and my interest far too much for there to be anything left for a relationship. But this was not easy banter. The swell of something in the air made me uncomfortable, because it was as foreign as it was intense.

"I should probably go," I said lightly, striving to dissipate the tension. It did not dissipate, but thickened, as she lifted wide dark eyes to my face.

"If you want," she shrugged, keeping her tone light as well. "I'll never ask you to leave."

I cleared my throat. "It's nice to have a place where you feel welcome."

She smiled that smile that went straight to my head. "Isn't it?"

As I shut the door behind me, I shook my head slowly. Now what?


	5. 105 Unfriendly Skies

Author's Note: Last one for tonight, dearies. Don't worry. The anticipation won't kill you...much.

* * *

_You know, high altitude enhances the entire sexual experience. It increases the euphoria._

_Well, it's good. I don't know if it's that good. Cite your source._

_A magazine…now cite your source._

_Oh, now you want to go down that route?_

_You started it._

* * *

I can't believe I told Grissom about Ken. Honestly, it was so stupid. But just the thought of him crammed into some tiny airplane bathroom with a giggling blonde or exotic redhead made me feel—I don't know what it made me feel. I didn't like it. "Applied Psychodynamics in Forensic Science," my ass. I won't hold my breath for that subscription.

But the look on his face as I described what can only be referred to as a mediocre sexual experience with an arrogant, overrated guy heated my face, for several reasons. He appeared shocked that I would do something like that. Does he think I've never had sex, or a boyfriend? But there was something else on his face, too…and I found myself wondering if he was picturing it. I wanted him to picture it, picture me—skirt pushed up around my hips, legs wrapped around his body, hands bracing me against the sink as he drives me to orgasm…

Oops. Kind of replaced Ken in that little mental scenario.

He called me, when the case was over, just to talk. I pushed him to admit that there was no magazine, but he insisted. I felt ridiculously pleased. And eager to fly somewhere, anywhere, with him by my side.

This is more than just admiration or casual attraction that I'm feeling. And it's scaring me to death.


	6. 106 Sex, Lies, and Larvae

Author's Note: Chapter six. Are the really short chapters annoying anyone? I considered loading each season as a whole chapter, instead of 10-12 smaller chapters, but it seemed a lot of small chunks to put into one chapter. But if this is annoying, I can reformat and reload...thoughts? Anyway, assuming you're lovin' this, enjoy!

* * *

_You want to sleep with me?_

_Did you just say what I think you said?_

* * *

I am a man. This has never meant anything particularly significant to me, outside of a definition, a scientific identification that implies several things: my DNA has one X chromosome and one Y; the levels of testosterone in my body are higher than the levels of estrogen, primary and secondary sexual characteristics differ from a female, etc. But today, I found myself using the excuse of being a man to explain away a very disturbing reaction.

She came into my office, talking about the Kaye Shelton case, about the dreams she was having, the emotional involvement she was developing in the case. It was not news to me—I had practically had to pull her off of Scott Shelton the day before. I had never seen Sara so angry. Something truly set her off about this guy, but I was too hesitant to try and find out what it was. It was clearly very personal, and I—I don't do well with personal.

I tried to reason with her, to calm her down. I offered the explanation of empathy, reminded her that it was normal. And then she took my breath away.

_You want to sleep with me?_

I knew better. I knew there had to be something else there, something else she was saying. Her face was so still, so closed off. And yet—I reacted. I tried to hide it. But no one, _no one_ has ever asked me that before, not so bluntly, not so specifically. I reacted.

_God, yes._

I thank everyone and everything I've ever believed in that those words did not come out of my mouth. It would have been very inappropriate, for a lot of reasons. But as she finished her sentence, as she drove home the amount of pain she was experiencing, as my brain skipped to the scientific implications of what she had just said and what they could mean for our case, still her words and my instinctive though silent response echoed in my head.

Nick wasn't wrong. I reworked the evidence for Sara. In the end, it didn't matter to the case, or to prosecuting Scott Shelton, but it mattered to her. I saw it in her smile, felt it in the way she wrapped a blanket around me and handed me a thermos of coffee. She sat beside me all night, watching a pig decay, and I was happier than I've been in a long time.

If I let myself go to that place with her, it will change everything. And I'm scared to death.


	7. 107 Too Tough To Die

Author's Note: Chapter Seven. This episode was so sad to me, and so frought with GSR drama, that I decided to make it a significant episode for my A/U tale. Enjoy!

* * *

_Sara. Do you have any diversions?_

_Do I what?_

_You max out on overtime every month. You go home and listen to your police scanner. You read forensic textbooks…What do you do for fun?_

_I chase rabbits. And I read crime books. And I listen to the scanner._

_You need something outside of law enforcement…I sometimes ride roller coasters. What do you do?_

_Nothing._

_Okay, what do you like?_

_I don't like anything._

_You've got to find something to like. If you don't find something, they'll all become special and you'll burn out._

_I wish I was like you, Grissom. I wish I didn't feel anything._

* * *

I found her. I found Pamela.

She is breaking my heart.

Do I have any _diversions_? What do I do for _fun_? This, coming from Grissom. Unbelievable.

I lied a little, though. I do things. I think about him.

I like things. I like him.

I think maybe I hurt him when I implied that he doesn't feel anything. But it just hurt me so much, his constant harping on me not getting too close to the victims. This is exactly why I didn't want to let him know how emotional I could get. I knew his opinion of me would change, whether he thought it would or not. And I was right.

I'm going to his place for the first time tonight, gathering up every shred of my courage to knock on the door. He's never even given me his address; I found him in the phone book and just drove. Now I'm standing outside, in the warm light over the front door of his townhouse, wondering if I am insane.

The door opens in front of me, before I even have a chance to knock or ring the bell. He is standing there, more casual than I have ever seen him in a black tee shirt and oversized plaid pajama pants. He looks profoundly human, and my heart skips a beat. Traitor.

"Sara." He is clearly surprised to see me.

"I'm sorry for what I said." These were not the first words I intended to have come out of my mouth, but there they are, hanging in the air between us. He dips his head in acknowledgement.

"It's fine, Sara. But you didn't have to come all the way out here to tell me that."

"Can I—Can I come in?"

He hesitates, and I feel heat flood my face. "You know what, never mind. I shouldn't have just showed up here without even calling. I'll see you at work." But he reaches out, catches my arm, and stops me.

"Come in, Sara."

I let him lead me inside, run my gaze over the cement floor, the white walls, the utilitarian furniture. The only warmth in the room comes from his bookcases and the books that cover them, and the framed butterflies covering nearly every wall. I trail my fingers over the spines of his books, reading them as if they will reveal truths to me that he cannot. I stare at butterfly wings: orange, brown, blue.

"I'm not used to having people here," he says, and he is very close behind me. I turn, and I am instantly flustered by the realization that I am almost in his arms. He has thrown on a navy blue terrycloth robe over his pajamas, and I resist the urge to run my fingers over the fabric. Oh, god—I want Grissom. Not just casually, or theoretically, like I have for the past three and a half years. Literally. Really. Right now.

His eyes are so blue.

He steps back, allows me to move around him, and I do, wringing my hands together, feeling nervous and a little sick. Six weeks ago, he worked every angle of the Kaye Shelton case for me. Today, he listened to me rant about my frustrations at the legal system. He is a good boss, a good friend. But I'm not certain it's enough.

I swallow hard. I don't know what to say.

"You seem to have something on your mind," he says easily. He is behind me again, and when I turn he is just as close as he was previously. His tongue darts out to lick his lips the way he does when he's nervous, or thinking, and I raise an eyebrow.

"You too," I toss back, and he smiles with one corner of his mouth.

"You first."

I say the only thing I can think to say, the foolish sentence I tossed out at him more than a month ago just to provoke a reaction. I got one, too—maybe more than I had expected. Time to test it out again.

"You want to sleep with me?"

He just looks at me, enigmatic, but his eyes tighten a little. I summon up every drop of courage I possess and reach out to lightly touch his cheek. He jerks at the touch, but does not pull away.

"Do you need me to explain away your nightmares?" he asks lightly, probingly. My response is going to change everything, and I'll never be ready.

"No," I say quietly. "I just need you."

He exhales slowly, heavily, and I wait for the polite refusal, the explanation. It never comes.

He steps forward, takes my face between his work-roughened hands, and kisses me. It is delicate, it is tender, it is respectful and sweet, and I am grateful. I will always be able to remember this beautiful gesture of affection as our first kiss. But it is not what I am asking for.

And so when enough time has passed for that first kiss to be indelibly imprinted on both our brains, I wrap my arms around him and show him exactly what it is I'm asking for. And he gives it to me, until I am lost beneath him, crying out his name.

It is amazing. It is primal. It is so fucking hot.

It's very…diverting.


	8. 108 Gentle, Gentle

Author's Note: Man, this episode got to me! And Grissom. I thought it should be a great place to show how Grissom is reacting to the changes in his relationship with Sara. Enjoy!

* * *

_You told me a few weeks ago that nothing is personal. No victim should be special. Everyone follows your lead._

_Everyone didn't find that baby. I did. And that little boy is dead because someone lost their temper, or screwed up, or god knows what. So excuse me, but this victim is special._

* * *

She gave me Needra, but it didn't help. Then she told me about the fiber, and it did.

The first time news came and I had to go back to the Andersons', I made Catherine drive me. Sara had confronted me, and I was angry and on edge, and I just couldn't look at her, because she was right. And because everything has changed between us, and I was finding myself lost in foreign ideas, ways to drive all the rage and fury from my mind and body.

I never considered sex as emotional release before. Really.

But when she came with me the second time, and we found that damn potholder that led to the truth about everything, I was grateful. And when she showed up on my doorstep after everything was over, I was relieved. I needed her.

She let me kiss her until her mouth was bruised, let me leave the marks of my fingers on her shoulders and hips and thighs. She let me be the hypocrite who begged her to leave her emotions at home and then brought my own right into the DNA lab. She let me rage about liars and dead babies as I paced around the room, and let me finally break down and cry in her arms.

I was anything but gentle. And she gave me everything I needed to survive.


	9. 109 Sounds of Silence

Author's Note: Right. Like Grissom wasn't going to tell anyone how he knew sign language. Right.

* * *

_So, you going to tell us how you learned to sign?_

_No…Sara, you see deafness as a pathology. For Dr. Gilbert, her deafness is not her handicap, it's her way of life…As long as you see this as us versus them, you're going to have problems on this case._

* * *

"You're seriously not going to tell me."

He sighed and sank down onto her couch. "I'll tell you."

She sat beside him, curling up her legs underneath her. He took a slow sip of the Scotch she had poured for him. She had not even bothered to tell Warrick that she knew what Grissom drank _and_ where he went many nights. No reason to go down that scary and potentially job-ending road.

"My mother is deaf. I learned to sign as a child to communicate with her."

"Oh." Sara twisted her hands together. They had talked about work, science, art, music, and any other things they had in common—or not—but never personal things, never their families or their childhoods. Something in her warmed at the sharing, and another part of her froze up, hoping he would not expect something in return.

That was a much more frightening road.

"Anyway, it's not surprising that you and Warrick had a difficult time with Dr. Gilbert. Most hearing people don't have a lot of firsthand experience with the deaf, and knowing the polite or even appropriate ways to approach and communicate can be hard to master."

"I'm glad you were there," Sara said honestly, reaching for his glass and taking her own sip. He smiled and took the glass from her.

"Sara." His voice was very soft, and the way he said her name, a bit tremulous. Even though it had only been a month since their friendship had evolved, she was already learning to interpret the ways he had of saying her name, and what they meant. He lifted his hand, spelled the letters of her name with his fingers. "Sara…"

He wanted to kiss her, and then he wanted to touch her. His voice told her that, but first she had to know. "Is that my name?"

"Yes." He started to lean forward, but she stopped him with a hand in the center of his chest.

"Show me yours."

He started to spell out _Grissom_, but she stopped him. "No, because if that was my name before, then I'm seeing r's and s's. Show me your first name."

His hand trembled slightly before he spelled it out for her, watching her slender fingers mimic his movements. _Gilbert._

"No one calls me that," he said, a little defiantly. She imagined it was the same tone he'd used as a child with teachers and maiden aunts. "I hate the way it sounds."

She traced the letters with her fingers again, a quick study. "I love the way it looks. Show me mine again."

And he did, until she was spelling his name and her name over and over. _Gilbert Sara Gilbert Sara Gilbert Sara…_

"God, I love your hands," he breathed, clasping her wrists with his own hands and tugging her into his arms. He kissed her until she was gasping for air.

"I love yours," she replied, and with a soft growl he pulled her to her feet and down the hall, to her bedroom, a temple in which he loved to worship. He used his hands to bare her skin to his lips, to trace the letters of her name on her stomach, her thighs, and all down her spine, and to bring her to a shuddering orgasm against his mouth. She used hers to guide him inside her, to drag her nails down his back, and to caress his cheek as he groaned out her name.

"Sign language is pretty," she admitted, curled up into his side afterward. "But I'm glad I'm not deaf."

"Why's that?" he asked softly.

"Because my name on your lips is the most beautiful sound I've ever heard."


	10. 110 Evaluation Day

Author's Note: Yeah, I had to deal with Terri. Cause I don't love her. Unfortunately, because of dealing within the canon of episodes and creating an A/U tale, I must begin foreshadowing the events that are to come. Keep the faith and love me!

* * *

_A crime has been committed._

_I hate to state the obvious, but, uh, this isn't a human being we're dealing with. It's an animal. And every time a dog gets run over, you can't go to the vet to examine it._

_I can't believe you. You, with your pet tarantula, your maggot farms, that komodo dragon on back order…you should be more sympathetic to the senseless murder of an innocent gorilla._

_You're right. I apologize._

* * *

"Terri told me that you took the gorilla's ashes," he said quietly. We were undressing in the dark of his bedroom, our kisses having driven us there. I was prepared to writhe naked under or over him for an hour or two, depending on how tired we were, not discuss my own private burial rites for a deceased animal.

"Oh. Yes."

He misunderstood my tone. "Sara, we had dinner _once_."

"What? Oh. God, no. I don't care about Terri." He lifted one eyebrow. "Well, I don't. I don't even know her. I just—don't know if I want to talk about what I did in the desert."

"Are you embarrassed?" He sat down on the bed, only his dark blue boxers hiding the body I had come to know and love from me. I sighed and crawled over to him, watching his expression become distracted.

"I don't know. You seemed to think that caring about the death of an animal means I don't know how to prioritize."

"I still think you're an amazing CSI," he said gently, leaning over to kiss the side of my neck. I sighed and wriggled closer to him.

"Better than Nick?"

He sighed. "Sara. You know I won't discuss evaluations with you."

"But he was all psycho today. What did you do to him?"

"Hopefully, I lit a fire under his ass to start thinking for himself. He's entirely too concerned with what I think of him. When he gets over that, then he'll be the sort of CSI I know he has the potential to be." He leaned over and swatted my ass lightly. "You too, Sidle."

"I'll never stop caring what you think," I said firmly.

"I know," he sighed. "And that's great, when we're like this." He gestured to the darkness of his bedroom, the near-nudity of our bodies. "But there, in the lab, you have to start thinking for yourself too."

"I do," I said quietly. "I research gorilla deaths and scan through missing persons' reports even after you tell me to go home."

He frowned. I knew that sometimes he worried about what was happening between us, about how it would affect our work. I reached out and pulled him close.

"Don't do it, Gris. That's work, and this is us."

"And this is what?" he said slowly.

"Whatever it is," I replied vaguely. "Try to compartmentalize."

He kissed me then, but I could tell his heart wasn't in it. "I'm tired," he murmured suddenly. "Any chance we could just catch some sleep?"

I raised an eyebrow. I had spent the night several times, as had he, but always after sex. Because that's what this was about, right? Sex. Sleeping without sex—that was relationship territory, and that was a little more dangerous.

"I—sure," I said hesitantly. He curled up around me, but I stayed awake long after his even breaths told me he had drifted off.

We would have sex when he woke up, right? Because that would make this okay.

Whatever this was.


	11. 111 Strip Strangler

Author's Note: This is the conclusion of "Afterwords" for season one. I will be posting all of season two soon. Enjoy!

* * *

_Damn it. Damn that guy!_

_Listen. No emotions in here._

_He's escalating, Grissom._

* * *

She was so angry. Again. She just can't stop getting close. Maybe it wasn't so personal this time, but her emotions get in the way every single time. Who did what to her? I wonder. Something has to be behind all this.

* * *

_Your CSI, Sidle, has expressed an interest to my agents in availing herself. I wanted to let you know before we made the official offer…Sara Sidle matches the victim prototype to a "t". She's a young woman, brunette, tall for a female._

_You're not serious…He's not going to kill my CSI._

* * *

Sometimes I'm glad my thoughts aren't projected onto a wall for everyone to see. I could just see Sara, stripped, posed, bloody, and I wanted to throw up. Culpepper is an arrogant moron, and Sara is being an idiot. Goddamn her inability to control her emotions. I'm not going to watch her get taken by a serial rapist because she doesn't trust me.

* * *

_I'm going to do it, Grissom. I want to._

_You want to put yourself in the path of a psychotic killer?_

_I'm trained in weaponless defense._

_Too bad, because that's what he turns him on—women fighting back. Sit down, Sara._

* * *

And I had to let her do it. I tried to control her, even at the risk of suspicion not only from the rest of our team, but from interfering FBI agents. I tried to force her to listen to me, to obey me—something I've never done with a woman before. All because I was completely and abjectly terrified at the thought of losing Sara.

And the discovery of this fear was more terrifying than the fear itself.

I'm too close. I'm too emotionally involved. I wanted to believe this was merely friendship with benefits; simply sexual release for two people who found themselves too busy for normal relationships and too human to go without contact with another person when the horrors of humanity's depravity became all too real.

Just a few nights ago, we found ourselves collapsing into bed, wrapped around one another, just embracing and sleeping. No sex. No release. Just comfort and rest. And at the time, I enjoyed it and tried not to think too hard about it. I would fight my instincts to overanalyze and withdraw. I would take everything one day at a time.

Then I watched her walk down the aisles of a grocery store, skirt clinging to thighs I could imagine wrapped around my hips, one delicate arm supporting a shopping basket the way it would support my head as she kissed me, making herself _bait_ for one of the most depraved signature killers I had had the misfortune to encounter in my ever-lengthening career as a criminalist. And I nearly lost my mind.

When it was over, when we were sitting on her bed, staring at each other, her slim fingers gently examining the bruised abrasion on my arm, I found the courage inside myself to say something. "Sara."

"Hmm?" Her voice was soft, her eyes fixed on my arm and not on my face. I leaned over and caught her chin in my hands, urging eye contact. "What, Gris?"

I fought the urge to kiss her, to force everything out of my mind with the sweet softness of her skin under my fingertips. "We should talk."

"I know you're bothered by what I did," she said slowly, pulling her hands away from my skin. "I know you didn't want me to volunteer to be the bait. But I had to do something. That man was going to keep killing women until someone stopped him."

"And you thought that someone should be you." I tried and failed to keep a certain testiness from my tone.

"And _you_ thought that someone should be _you_," she replied in a similar vein, her dark eyes flickering with emotion. "You were so convinced that you were right."

"So were you," I pointed out, and she flushed in embarrassment.

"Just because it didn't work doesn't mean I was wrong to try it. You told me I needed to start thinking for myself."

"Sara, I'm worried about you," I said seriously, reaching for her hand. She drew back, and I sighed. "You're emotional and impetuous, and one of these days, it's going to get you killed."

"We all have to go sometime," she said slowly, and my chest tightened.

"So, I don't give you anything more to live for?" I inquired, knowing this was dangerous territory. Fear colored her expression, confirming my suspicions. This was not a discussion she wanted to have. At least, not yet.

"I care for you, a lot," Sara said softly, wrapping her arms about her slim frame. "But I can't stop being myself and making decisions that are right for me just because of this. I can't let you cross the line from being my supervisor to being—I don't know, my father, or my master. You can give me instructions, and I'll respect you as much as I would respect anyone I worked for. But you can't control me, Grissom, no matter what happens when we're alone. Not now, not ever." She lifted very serious eyes from the comforter to my face, her expression determined, almost grim. "Can you live with that? Because, if not, then maybe we need to be having a completely different discussion."

My throat constricted and my heart pounded painfully against my chest at the thought of the discussion to which she was referring. I had no idea what was developing between us, or where I wanted it to go, but the thought of losing her—in any capacity—was unbearable. Terrified, longing for my rationality back, I reached for her and pulled her into my arms. She was still here, still alive, still with me. I would keep it that way, and worry about everything else later.

I could do that, right?

"I can live with that," I murmured into her hair. She kissed the side of my neck. I was relieved at how easy it was to convince her.

I wished I could convince myself.

* * *


	12. 201 Burked

Author's Note: Begin season two!

* * *

_Interesting love bites on the chest._

_Curious, isn't it?_

* * *

"So, they were button marks, not bites?" Sara was hovering over my chest, her slender fingers undoing each button on my shirt very slowly. She had that look in her eye that always suggested she was about to do something very wicked.

"Yeah," I replied, trying to control my breathing as she lightly trailed her lips down every bit of skin she exposed to the cool air of her apartment. "He was smothered when she knelt on his chest. Left the imprint of his shirt buttons in the flesh."

"Marks are always a dead giveaway that something's going on," she said archly, before lightly biting me. I groaned and traced my fingers down her arms.

In the late afternoon light, as I dressed for work in my own townhouse, I noticed the small red and purple marks she had left on my body. Three on my chest, one above my left hip, one on the inside of my right thigh. Marking me.

None were higher than my collarbone. No giveaways.

* * *


	13. 202 Overload

* * *

_We quit before we should have._

_Yeah, you did._

* * *

"I really am sorry for what happened."

"I know," he said quietly, looking at me over his glasses. He had been reading when I called, hesitant when I asked to come over. In the end, he acquiesced, as he always did these days.

"I'm not a quitter."

"I know. You just didn't believe in me."

"I've always believed in you," I said simply, honestly. "Let me show you."

I used my mouth on him for over an hour, bringing him to two lovely orgasms. I thought I might possibly drive him to unconsciousness the second time. He lay panting under me, his hands deep in my hair, his eyelids fluttering.

"I believe you," he whispered. "God, Sara, I'll believe anything you like."

I smiled at him, affectionate, apologetic. "Told you. I'm not a quitter."

* * *


	14. 203 Bully For You

Author's Note: And, sadly, because this is a post-episodic series and, while A/U depending on your perspective, I do not intend for it to wildly deviate from canon events outside of the GSR relationship, the deviation from perfection must begin. Enter Hank.

* * *

_What were you in high school, a jock or a brain?_

_I was a ghost…_

* * *

_Let me guess. Decomp in an enclosed space…Use lemons._

_Scent triggers memory more acutely than any of the five senses._

* * *

"I met someone today," she said casually, stretching out beside him. He fixed her with an impassive stare, one eyebrow arched in imitation of her casualness.

"You did?"

"Paramedic. Name is Hank something or other. Nick caught us flirting at the scene and made fun of me. I thought I should mention it, just in case it ever comes up. Nick talks a lot. Also, Hank asked me to dinner. Decomp seemed to put him off, though."

He forced himself to continue the cavalier façade. "Is this paramedic going to be a problem?"

"I don't think so," she said hesitantly, rolling over to face the wall. "I'll let you know."

For the first time since they had begun this, he felt invisible.

Her hair smelled like lemons.

* * *


	15. 204 ScubaDoobieDoo

Author's Note: Ah, the infamous chalk dust scene.

* * *

_You want to take a walk around the block? Get some air? Clear your head?_

_I'm fine._

_Chalk…from plaster. Better go wash up._

* * *

"Sara…"

He is standing in my doorway, hesitant. Since the second or third time, he has never been hesitant about entering my tiny apartment, never hesitated to allow me into his more spacious home. There is a bar of his soap in my shower. I left some lavender bubble bath in his medicine cabinet. We each have bottles of the other's favorite wine and bags of each other's favorite coffee. Why is he hesitating?

"Was there really chalk dust on my face?" Such an odd question, and I know exactly why he's asking. We are friends, we are coworkers, and we are fuck buddies (he would say lovers, maybe, but I am not so delicate), but we rarely even make love, much less touch one another in the way I touched him tonight—lingering, loving, compassionate. I don't doubt that he cares for me. I know exactly how I feel about him. But it's easier if we pretend it's just sex. I can live with just sex. I turn to face the wall, to hide my eyes.

"Of course, silly. Do you want a glass of wine?"

He sinks into my chair. It is easier to believe the lie, to ignore the evidence. He does not bring the scientist into my bed. "Yes, please."

I pour the glass in the kitchen, with my back to him, to hide the shaking of my hands.

* * *


	16. 205 Organ Grinder

* * *

_Smell the musk? Hint of bleach? Sexual intercourse._

_The average American hotel room is covered with stains invisible to the naked eye…No matter how clean or expensive the room seems, that's why I always travel with nonoxynol-nine._

_You sound like you're making a commercial._

* * *

"So is that why you refused to meet me at a hotel that one time? Invisible stains?" he asked me as he slipped my robe from my shoulders. He was standing behind me, his fingers very gentle against my skin. I leaned back into his chest.

"Pretty much," I admitted. "At least in my home, and probably in yours, I know what everything's from."

I could feel him smile against my neck. "But neither of us have mirrors above our beds, Sara."

I turned to him, grinning, and wrapped my arms around his neck. "That can be fixed, you know. If you really want it."

We were too distracted for the next few hours to think of mirrors or stains again.

Later, in the shower, he asked, "Dinner with Greg?"

I smirked. "You should have seen his face when he gave me the Internet information and I told him I could kiss him for it."

"Something you need to tell me?"

I slid my soapy body against his, eliciting a throaty groan. "No. But I wish someone could tell poor Greg."

"What's that?"

"I'm otherwise occupied."

His eyes were tender when he kissed me, and I tried to swallow back the hope.

* * *


	17. 206 You've Got Male

Author's Note: One of my favorite early GSR episodes...take two.

* * *

_Well, we already know she cooks like I do: takeout on speed-dial…we're on the same mailing lists._

_Agoraphobic, maybe? Or she just doesn't like people?_

_Ah, that's you talking._

* * *

_Why'd she place orders over the phone?_

_Need for human contact._

_Without physical contact?_

* * *

_'My life began when I first heard your voice…when you said my name, it felt so right. Did you feel it too?'_

_It's easy to wear your heart on your sleeve when you're not looking in his eyes._

* * *

"Something's different."

I stared at her refrigerator, glanced over at her coffee table. The whole room felt slightly different, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I pulled open the fridge to take out a couple of beers. It was almost empty, except for a few bottles of water and a container of yogurt. I threw a look over my shoulder at her.

"Sara, what's going on?"

"Nothing." She studiously refused to meet my eyes.

"Where were you last night?" I asked slowly, closing the refrigerator. She toyed with the fringed end of the afghan draped over her.

"I went out. Had a couple of drinks with a friend."

"Who?"

"Does it matter?"

I pinpointed one of the differences as I looked at the coffee table again. No magazines or catalogs. I glanced back at the refrigerator door. No menus. She had cleaned out everything—everything she had in common with Donna Marks.

I sighed and came over to sit beside her on the couch. She still did not look at me.

"You're nothing like her, Sara."

"I'm exactly like her," she said bitterly. I tried to tilt her chin up to meet my eyes, but she pulled away.

"What about us?" I asked quietly. "You have physical contact that Donna lacked. Doesn't that count for something?"

"Physical contact…without human contact," she replied slowly, finally looking up. I flinched.

"That's harsh."

"Maybe. I'm taking a cooking class."

"That's…good." I felt a little at a loss for words. "Sara—"

"Don't."

"What?"

"Don't say my name like that."

"Like what?" I had never felt more confused in my life.

"It doesn't feel right anymore," she said sadly, and covered her eyes with one hand.

"Is there something you want to talk with me about?" I asked, terrified and unable to place the source of my terror.

"No," she replied, lowering her hand. She leaned over and kissed me. "Sorry for what I said, about human contact. I don't know what I meant by that."

"That makes two of us," I admitted, and let her lead me to her bedroom. The entire time I touched her, kissed her, thrust inside her, she looked away. It was the loneliest sex I have ever had.

"I don't want to fall in love with you," she whispered, after. I pretended to be asleep.


	18. 207 The Finger

Author's Note: Oh, god. More Hank. Prepare yourselves. The angst is temporary! I promise!!

* * *

_It's not like she knew I was going to be there._

_I knew._

* * *

"So, how was your date?" he asked me casually, as I poured us both coffee.

I sputtered. "Excuse me?"

"Well, I was the last to know, but I still heard about it."

I walked into the living room, handed him his coffee. "It was just dinner. At the diner, on his break from work. It was nothing."

"You didn't tell me about it."

"I don't tell you everything." I could feel myself becoming defensive. "Look, what is your problem? I eat dinner with Nick or Warrick all the time."

"You said the paramedic wasn't going to be a problem." He looked at me over the rim of his mug, enigmatic.

"I said I'd let you know," I snapped. "Our arrangement doesn't preclude us dating whomever we want."

"An arrangement with him might."

"I'll _let you know_." I stomped into the bedroom, started pulling off my clothes. He followed me in.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting ready for bed," I said shortly. "You can stay or you can go. It doesn't much matter to me now."

"I'll stay," he said quietly. He did, but only long enough to finish. I didn't even come close. He kissed me gently on the cheek and left.

Maybe it was time for a new arrangement.


	19. 208 Primum Non Nocere

Author's Note: Best. Line. Ever. And also, I like Zambonis.

* * *

_Since when are you interested in beauty?_

_Since I met you._

* * *

_Say goodbye to Greg._

_Bye, Greg._

* * *

_With all the sex these people are having, maybe I should take up hockey._

* * *

_I was sleeping with Terry, but I was dating Tommy._

_And what's the difference?_

_Terry was…the kind of guy you just can't get out of your system, who's on your mind all the time…Tommy? Husband material._

* * *

"So, I'm forgiven then." He looked a little nervous, and she let him. Leaned back against her kitchen counter, casually, sipping a mug of hot chocolate, training her face to be as impassive as his.

"You didn't sign my leave, you know," she reminded him.

"Because I don't want you to leave, Sara. I told you, the lab needs you here."

"That's not what I want to hear, Grissom. Why can't admit that _you_ need me, and not the lab?"

He sighed, ran a hand through his silver curls. "Because I want you to stay, Sara, but I don't need you to. It's a desire, not desperation."

She mimicked his sigh, fingering the leaves of the small plant sitting on her counter. "I suppose I'll have to settle for that." Another sip, and she added, "What was with the comment in DNA today?"

He looked genuinely confused. "Comment?"

Her voice took on a mocking tone. "'Say goodbye to Greg.'"

He smiled. "Oh, that. Sometimes I just like to remind Greg where he stands. He may want you to stay, but in the end, you're leaving with me."

"Wow. I love it when you're possessive."

He scowled, reached for his own steaming mug full of coffee rather than hot cocoa. "Not possessive. Just realistic."

"I could be visiting Greg on my nights off when you're working. You don't know."

"No, I suppose I don't," he admitted. "But if you were, I imagine you wouldn't feel the need to consider taking up hockey."

She laughed, surprised. "Grissom, I was kidding."

He laughed as well, but there was a shadow behind his eyes that she did not miss. "It's not like you need hockey to have that kind of lifestyle. Other men find you beautiful, Sara. Greg, the paramedic, even Nick—honestly, I wonder why it's me you let in your door and your bed."

Jane's words echoed in her head. _The kind of guy you just can't get out of your system, who's on your mind all the time…_ "Yeah. I don't know." She focused on her hot chocolate.

"Speaking of—" He reached out, traced the back of her hand where it rested on the counter. "_Am_ I forgiven, Sara?"

She sighed. "You mean, will I let you stay tonight?"

He tipped up the corner of his mouth in an adorably sheepish expression. "Something like that."

"You're as bad as the stockbroker," she teased.

"Only with you," he replied, his serious tone making her heart jump and skip a beat or two. She smiled faintly and set down her cocoa.

"I can't hold a grudge against a man who claims me as his inspiration to care about beauty in the world," she said lightly. "Sometimes you're too poetic for your own good, Grissom."

"Oh, I think it's very, very good for me," he said, leaning over to kiss her.

Tangled in the sheets, Grissom's body stretched out beneath hers as she leisurely rolled her hips against him, Sara breathed in deeply, tried to capture every sensation in the moment—the feel of his large hands on her hips, slightly rough; the smell of his skin, woodsy and warm with sweat and sex; the way he sounded when he groaned her name. She felt tears springing to her eyes and dipped her head forward so that her hair would hide them. Unbidden, the image of a young, handsome paramedic danced before her eyes. She had only met him three times, had an official date with him once. She had never been with him like this. He was not Grissom. Why couldn't she get him off her mind?

She was sleeping with Grissom. She could see herself dating Hank. What was the difference?

Jane's voice in her head again. _Tommy? Husband material._

He guided her with practiced strokes to orgasm, and she tried to put Hank out of her mind.

She failed.


	20. 209 Chasing the Bus

Author's Note: Since this is A/U-ish but still following the story in the show, I have to deal with Hank somehow, and that means... Oy. Don't hate me. It doesn't last.

* * *

_Sara. She's at the print lab. She—needs me._

* * *

"Are you trying to drive me crazy?" I asked her as she sank to the bed beside me. She arched one perfect eyebrow.

"Not yet," she replied teasingly, sliding her hand down my chest. I caught her wrist somewhere around my abdomen.

"You told Warrick you _needed_ him? Interesting choice of words."

"Isn't it?" she said easily, pulling her arm free. "I didn't find it particularly hard to say."

And here we were again. "Sara—" I began, searching for the right way to make this fight stop playing out on repeat. _The lab needs you here. Great._ She still wanted me to admit it was I, and not the lab, that needed her. It didn't seem the right thing to say.

"It's okay, Grissom. I'm just giving you a hard time."

"I noticed," I said wryly, my thoughts shifting. "You could be a little more subtle, you know."

"Excuse me?"

"I didn't exactly miss the way you brushed up against me when you and Catherine came into the garage. I hope, however, that everyone else did."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said demurely. I chuckled.

"You're always doing it, Sara. Maybe you don't even realize it anymore."

"_Always_?" she challenged.

"Yes. Like during that ground beef experiment—I thought you were actually trying to merge your breasts with my arm, you were leaning against me so suggestively."

Her eyes narrowed, and I knew immediately it had been the wrong instance to reference. Crossing her arms over the aforementioned breasts, she turned over to face the ceiling. "I didn't think you'd noticed."

"Why, because I was focused on the meat? On the case?"

"No, because you never pay attention to anything I do," she snapped. "Unless it's work-related, and sometimes not even then."

I flinched a little. "Sara, that's not true."

"What did I wear yesterday?" she demanded. "What shampoo do I use? What's my favorite food? No, don't answer that—you probably still don't remember that I'm a vegetarian."

"I remember."

"But you don't care."

"I care, Sara. What's going on with you?"

"Just me realizing that this is—I don't know." She sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed. I caught her arm.

"Please don't go, Sara."

"I can't pretend like I want to fuck you right now, Grissom. So I should just go."

I pulled away, hurt. "You can't pretend you want to _fuck_ me?"

"Please," she sneered, not turning to face me. "As if this has ever been anything else."

"I don't exactly know what this is, or what it's been, but I certainly didn't think you were pretending." My tone became a little haughty, against my better judgment. "I didn't think you would have to."

"I don't," she fired back, clearly angry at the admission. "But that's all we do, and tonight I don't want to. So I'm leaving."

"You're going home?"

"I don't know where I'm going," she said shortly. "Greg had a really tough day. Maybe I'll drop by his place, see how he's doing."

"You know where Greg lives?" I could not keep the incredulity—or the growing anger—out of my voice. "That's great, Sara. Can you pretend you want to fuck him?"

She turned to me finally, a pain dancing in the shadows of her eyes that I had never seen before. No, I had seen it—I just did my best to ignore it. But I couldn't now. She smiled at me sadly, fatalistically. "Who says I would have to pretend?"

The sound of my front door slamming was bitterly final.


	21. 210 Anatomy of a Lye

_We've got a bus to catch_.

* * *

He took my arm as we crossed the street. Good thing, too, because I stepped out onto the asphalt without looking, and only his quick movement saved me from being slammed into at the knees like the man whose death we were investigating.

But I know the truth. He never would have taken my arm like that if anyone else was around. We are nothing, _nothing_—and I could have died, if Nick or Catherine or Warrick were there, because we are nothing. It makes me so sad I want to vomit.

I did not pick up my phone when he called tonight. I waited until he left a cryptic message—"Sara, it's me. Call me when you get a chance"—and then picked up the phone and dialed. Another number. Not his.

"Hank? It's Sara…"

I can't keep waiting for nothing.


	22. 211 The Hunger Artist

Author's Note: I absolutely loved this episode. The conversations between Cassie and Grissom provided so much fodder. Enjoy!

* * *

It has been more than two weeks. She is not answering my calls. I should not be surprised, but I am. I didn't think things were this bad. We fought, like always, and apologized, like always, and made up in the most wonderful ways, like always. I should have known something was different.

Maybe I missed something in the tone of her voice. Maybe she whispered something when her back was turned that I could not hear. It would have been accidental. There's no way she knows the truth.

What do I need? I don't know anymore. I thought I needed peace; work that gave my life meaning; time to read and occasionally watch poker on television, or go to a baseball game, or ride a rollercoaster. Simple pleasures, consistent occupation. I have never asked for much.

_You never know what you need until you find it. Or until you lose it._

She gave me much more than I needed or wanted, and I am loath to discover that I am finding it difficult to live without it. When you find what you need, or lose what you need, you discover truths you may never have wanted to learn. This is my current experience.

_All we are is what we try to get rid of._

I never meant to try and push her away. But when the day came that she was expounding eloquently on an article she had read in the latest forensics journal and I had to strain to read her lips because her voice faded out, I felt a little cold. When the night came that she panted out her climax in my arms and I could not hear her moaning my name, I turned to stone inside.

_There are going-away people and left-behind people, but, you know, everybody's secrets—everybody's secrets are the same._

Not all secrets are the same. I am not a murderer, or a rapist, or a closeted gay man. I am not a kleptomaniac, or a voyeuristic Peeping Tom, or a Republican. But I am, apparently, slowly going deaf. She does not know, but she is leaving anyway. Or maybe she already left, while I was busy not noticing. And I am left behind.

_You can pick through a million lives and never have one of your own._

_Looking for things, analyzing them, trying to figure out the world—that's a life._

I wanted Cassie to validate my existence today, at that moment, in some strange way. Her words ate a hole right into me, as she looked at me through her wild tangled hair and spoke the wisdom of a philosopher or a priest. I have a life. I am satisfied with that life. I do what I am called to do with that life.

So why does it feel like the most vibrant piece of my life is suddenly missing?

_You never know what you need until you find it. And the next thing I find—it might be the thing that changes everything._

_And what will you do when you find it?_

_Sleep—the most perfect sleep._

Perhaps Sara was the thing that changed everything for me. Perhaps I have lost the thing that changes everything.

No wonder I can't sleep.


	23. 301 Revenge Is Best Served Cold

Author's Note: On to Season Three! Sadly, we must continue to deal with Hank for a while. Don't worry; you know me. I'll snuff off the little bastard...right around the time the show did. ;)

* * *

_Hey, guys._

_Hey, Hank._

_Sara with you?_

_She's over there._

_Tell her I said hi._

* * *

So I saw him for the first time today. Hank. I've never really disliked a name before, but I don't think I care much for Hank.

Warrick was casual, friendly. Clearly, everyone knows this EMT but me. I know she met him a year ago, went on a date with him maybe six months ago. I didn't think too much of it, because she never let me. I guess not returning my personal calls for months combined with the friendliness of my staff with _Hank_ is her way of letting me know that the paramedic, finally, has become a problem. The problem. My problem.

What would she say if I told her I missed her?

I'm not going to bother. With my luck, I wouldn't hear the answer.


	24. 302 The Accused Is Entitled

Author's Note: Man, I hated Phillip Gerard. I decided Sara would, too.

* * *

_Phillip Gerard? Your mentor is their forensic scientist?_

* * *

I always thought I'd like Phillip Gerard. After all, as Grissom's mentor, he has to have played a role in how the man turned out, right? And as frustrating and enigmatic and maladjusted as Grissom can be sometimes, he's also brilliant and amazing and—well, never mind and. But nope. I hate Gerard.

The bastard outed me. I was doing well. I've been cool and calm and collected, just like every rejected-girl-come-to-her-senses-dating-another-guy should be. But Grissom can't leave well enough alone. He's an expert at hiding his emotions, except when I need him to.

* * *

_D.A. just provided me with copies of pictures of the victim's bra._

_Well, we already know the bra was moved. Sara filed a supplemental report to that effect._

_I know. I wish she'd mentioned her relationship with the EMT who moved the bra._

_Relationship?_

_A Hank Peddigrew._

* * *

He knows that name. Goddamn it, he knows that name. The paramedic. The problem. My—whatever. I don't know what he is. Poor Greg thinks he's the usurper that stole away his chances to capture me with a barrage of Thug Passions. Greg doesn't know that I was unavailable to him long before I ever met Hank.

Not that that matters now.

He sounded so stunned. _Relationship?_ And I tried to fix it, I did. I said it wasn't a relationship. I said we went to movies. It's true. We do. We go to movies; we eat dinner on our breaks from work when they happen to coincide. Oh, and we have sex. As of three nights ago, we have sex. But never before. Not when I was with Grissom and—well, never mind and. Again.

Hank is good. He's got stamina, and strong fingers, and a really nice butt. He kisses with too much tongue, and he's too rough with my breasts, and he always smells faintly of cedar, which I don't care for, but he's good. Good enough. Really.

I wanted Grissom to be angry. I wanted him to storm into my apartment with the key I still haven't gotten back. I wanted him to take me up against the wall, which he's never done, or on my kitchen counter, which he's done twice, or under the hot water in my shower, which he's done six times, or—well, anything, really. Because good enough is nice, but he's better. And I want him to care.

But relationship or no, movies or dinner or sex or marriage or nothing, it doesn't matter, apparently. I wanted him to say he loved me. He said I looked nice. I wanted him to demand that I take his calls, that I take him to bed, that I let him back in my life and come back into his. He told me, essentially, that it wasn't my fault. That I deserved to have a life. Apparently, a life for me is only something into which he does not figure.

And that defense attorney bitch ripped me apart on the stand. It wasn't the bra that killed me, the implication that I could have subtly communicated to Hank (what, with psychic eye blinks?) where I wanted the bra to be placed. I tried to make Grissom proud, even as I fumed and my heart broke. I said that I collect evidence without emotion. And she brought up chalk dust.

Chalk dust.

He asked me once if there had really been chalk dust on his face. I told him, of course there was. Of course, I was lying.

To this day, I will keep lying.

I hate Phillip Gerard. He outed me and he saw right through me and he knew through the course of one conversation how I felt about Grissom. So when the bitch said that maybe I would go to whatever lengths necessary to please my boss, even if he did not return my attentions, I had to wonder.

If Gerard could read a complete stranger in five minutes and be accurate, how much more right would he be about the man he knew for years?

He was wrong about one thing, though. My attentions were returned. For a while.

Now, I go to movies.


	25. 303 Let The Seller Beware

Author's Note: Remember this episode? The random annoyed attitude from the man who had no problem with Sara's relationship? Come on, you know my story explains everything!

* * *

_I am so sorry._

_I paged you two hours ago._

_You told me to get a life, remember?_

_Did I? I'm sorry, but I needed you. Dispatch called in a 419 at Tuscadero High School. You're on your own._

_On my own?_

_Solo._

_See you around._

* * *

_I'm, uh, sorry I missed your page. It's just, um, you tell me to get a life and then I get one, and then you expect me to be there at a moment's notice. It's, um, confusing._

* * *

He sent me away. He can't even stand to work with me anymore. When I told him I was at the vineyard, I know what he thought. He thought I was with Hank. I wasn't, but I decided that if he was going to be petty, he didn't deserve an explanation.

I am trying to have a life. I am. But I learned my lesson already about letting someone close enough that my life starts to automatically revolve around them. Hank and I go out once every two weeks, maybe. It's nice, and comfortable, and uncomplicated. Even the sex is uncomplicated. I like that.

Fuck. I miss complicated.

I tried to leave the lab without saying anything. I mean, the guy called me on my day off, reamed me out for not appearing within minutes, sent me away to work on my own, and on top of everything, the case was PCP-driven cannibalism by high school students. This wasn't just punishment. This was cold, cruel vengeance. Except Grissom would never acknowledge his capability to exact such revenge, or feel the emotions that might inspire it. He's so blind sometimes, it's ridiculous.

But I couldn't just leave. I can't leave without saying goodnight to him. I used to be able to say it in private, in my bed or his, almost every night. Maybe not that often. But often enough.

I said goodnight because, I guess, I wanted him to remember that too. Remember all the other, more intimate ways we wished each other a pleasant evening. Rub it in a little—punish him for punishing me. And it didn't even work. He didn't look the least bit fazed. So I pushed it. I let him know that I understood his game, that I knew there was more going on beneath the surface than he would admit to. He tried to act as if my moving on didn't matter, but in reality he wants me by his side, like always. And he isn't going to get it.

I watched him try to find the right words, probably trying to explain away his actions, his decisions. I didn't give him a chance. I walked away before he even looked up again.

I wish I could wait for him to find the right words, but I know they'll never be the ones I want to hear. So I spare us both some pain.

I refuse to wait.


	26. 304 A Little Murder

Author's Note: This episode amused me. I had to address Grissom and Melanie's odd attraction/hate relationship.

* * *

_This wasn't just a murder. This was a hate crime. Kevin Marcus hated himself._

* * *

I'm trying very hard not to hate myself.

Not because I'm losing my hearing, mind you. My mother was deaf, and I know that this doesn't have to mean the end of my life…maybe. I can sign. I'm taking a class in lip reading. After Phillip tried to discredit me on the stand, I realized the best defense truly is a good offense. I'm not waiting for the inevitable. I'm preparing.

No, I'm trying not to hate myself because I still want Sara. Because I still miss her. Melanie Grace is lovely and sweet and maybe would have been a good friend. Who knows? Maybe more. I'm certainly not the type to discriminate based on something as meaningless as height.

Except I looked at Melanie's dark hair, and it reminded me of hers. I miss Sara's curls. She always straightens her hair these days. I wonder if Hank likes it that way. And she's done some silly highlighting or lightening to it, so it looks blonder. I miss the darkness of it as it flowed across my fingers, the spiral of the curls around her face after the humidity of a bath, or the sweaty heat of sex.

I looked at Melanie's legs, and I didn't think her legs were too short because she was a dwarf. I thought they were too short because everyone's legs look short compared to Sara's. Most men haven't had the luxury of seeing them out of dress pants or jeans. I've seen them below the hem of a robe, a bath towel, a pair of lace panties. I've seen every inch of their length parted across my bed, folded into a kneeling position in front of me, wrapped around my hips, clenched around my face…

I have to stop this train of thought, before I leave the serenity of the deaf campus and drive to her apartment to beg her to leave the godforsaken EMT.

I am trying not to hate myself, but the crime has already been committed. I thought I was just having a physical relationship with an attractive coworker. Instead, I somehow got involved mentally, emotionally. It was a mistake. I will never let it happen again.

I wish it could happen again.

Just one more time.


	27. 305 Blood Lust

Author's Note: Oh, it's coming. The light at the end of the tunnel.

* * *

_I need you._

* * *

She cannot hold back the smile that quirks its way to her lips from the deepest recesses of her heart. A year ago, all she wanted to hear was these words. He had her in his life, in his lab, in his bed—but he could not say them. Now that she is someone else's—however casually—he can say them, couched in the context of work. She wants them to mean more, but does not even mentally push her luck.

Side by side they walk; examining blood drops, marking them, photographing them. It takes well over an hour, an hour in which he is close to her, smelling faintly of his soap that she remembers so well and another scent she does not recognize—a new shampoo, perhaps. She breathes him in, tries to be subtle. She thinks about how he tastes when she kisses him, when she licks his neck, when she wraps her mouth around him. She knows his mind is on evidence, but hers is not. She feels vaguely guilty, as if she is being unfaithful to the man she still does not claim as her boyfriend, but there is nothing she can do. It's Grissom. He needs her. And she…needs him.

* * *

_I have you_.

* * *

The minute it left his mouth, he knew it was a mistake. He meant he has her to tell him these things he misses, share with him the things she learns from sources he lacks. But her face told him that she might have heard something completely different. Something no longer true.

Because, of course, he no longer has Sara. If he ever did.

He cannot tell if she has heard it in another context and is offended, or wistful. If there is anyone in this lab as good at disguising emotions as him, it is Sara. He wants her to be wistful, to be caught up in the memories of what they had. It was pleasant, it was satiating, it was…a lot of things. But perhaps this Hank can offer her things he cannot. A relationship she doesn't have to hide, for one thing. A relationship, period, for another.

But does Hank kiss her the way he wants to? The way he did?

Because when she looks at him, any way at all…that's all he can think about.


	28. 306 OneHit Wonder

Author's Note: I know all of you are getting angsty and desperate for Hank to disappear. But we've got to hang in there a little longer! Argh!

* * *

_You think you know somebody…_

_I never think that._

_Ever?_

* * *

I don't know her. I don't understand why she left.

I don't know myself. I don't understand why I let her go.

* * *

_The best intentions are fraught with disappointment._

_Emerson?_

_Grissom._

* * *

What did I intend? He was brilliant and attractive and interested in me. I just wanted to see what it would be like.

How could he disappoint me? Easy. I fell in love. He didn't.


	29. 307 Lady Heather's Box

Author's Note: Oh, and now we have Lady Heather. Again. I purposefully ignored her in season two, but we really can't ignore her here. Despite Billy Petersen's declarations to the contrary, I always believed the show really suggested that they spent the night together. So I went with it, because it fit with the flow of the story. Sara's left Grissom for Hank, because she believes Grissom cannot love her while Hank can offer her a real relationship, so why wouldn't Grissom take the chance for comfort and intimacy as well? But don't worry--I have never been a Grissom/Lady Heather fan, so I can't let them be happy any more than I can allow Sara to truly be happy with Hank. Read on!

* * *

_You keep me in proximity when I walk away, and when I am close, you watch my lips. Are you losing your hearing?_

_I'm losing my sense of balance._

_Your sense of self?_

_No, I know who I am._

_Do you?_

_Yes, I do…You can always say stop._

_So can you._

* * *

He lost himself in Heather. With him, the leather and lipstick was stripped away, and the woman emerged. She was confident, beautiful, experienced. And like him, she was a little tired of pretending. Power was a way of life, but not an easy one. For one night, they both set aside the masks and came together as people, not leaders with lives on their shoulders. No one said stop.

He knew who he was. But he felt lost. He did not know what he needed.

He thought, perhaps, it was Heather. He knew she found something in him: a peace, a trust, a friendship, perhaps a love. But in her, he found that he was missing more than he had ever imagined. He entered her, off balance. He left her, falling.

* * *

_You fear me because I've committed the one unforgivable act. I know you._

* * *

He watched Brass, confused, continue the interrogation. He looked into the eyes he knew could not see him through the one-way glass, but found him unerringly anyway. And he told her the truth in his head.

_You know _about_ me, Heather. You know the one thing I'm hiding from everyone else in my life. You know that I'm afraid. You think knowledge is power. What you're missing is that power is not what I'm interested in; it never has been. I'm interested in the truth. And you cannot know me, because I have never told you the truth._

_I've never even told myself._

_The truth is that, there is something more terrifying to me than being known._

_Being alone._

_I live with my greatest fear every day. And not even you can reach me._

He went to the Dominion later, stared at the door now closed to him. He didn't blame her. Apologies _were_ just words, and words were rapidly becoming meaningless to him as his ability to hear them deteriorated. More meaningless to her, he supposed. But as he gazed at the closed door, his brain wandered away from that dark place to another.

Other doors had closed to him, too. He could not even drive past them anymore.

Looking just reminded him of what he had lost.


	30. 308 Crash And Burn

Author's Note: Finally. Finally.

* * *

_That's Sara's boyfriend._

* * *

Catherine doesn't know that he already knows who the man is. That he picked the EMT out of the crowd the minute he walked in the room, as if Sara's familiar aura has surrounded him during their time together, and it irresistibly draws his eyes to the man. He watches Sara bandage Hank's hand, tease him lightly, ask him to call her if he needs anything. He remembers when she touched him, when she teased him, when she asked him to call her.

He remembers when he needed something.

He no longer calls.

Catherine mentions a few days later that Hank is no more; the problem paramedic was apparently philandering, as well. He shoots her a sharp look, wondering why she is telling him. Her eyes are fixed on the bloody shirt she is examining, and her face is expressionless.

He wonders what he should feel upon hearing this news. Mostly, he feels alone.

She no longer calls.


	31. 309 Play With Fire

Author's Note: So, Heather was a mistake, and Hank has been left in the dust where he belongs. So why can't Grissom get his act together? You all know what happens next...Grissom continues shutting Sara out because of his hearing loss making him withdraw from everyone. *sigh*

* * *

_You were fortunate. And I'm not talking about the explosion._

* * *

Was I? I didn't feel fortunate.

He thought I was risking everything. Nick thought I was under the impression that I thought I was invincible. They were both wrong.

I wanted to see what it was like. I wanted to stare death in the face again, because it came so quickly the first time that I almost missed it.

When it came the first time that day, all I was thinking about was him. I wanted to reach him. It's been so long since we worked together, since he touched me, since I smelled his skin. Hank was a distraction. He is my addiction. I just wanted one moment alone with him, to ask him—what? I don't even remember.

And then the world exploded around me, and there was glass and heat and Greg's face sinking to the floor, and I wanted to scream, but my lungs were on fire. All I could think was: where is he? Where is Grissom?

He came to me, touched me, and called me honey. I know it was a slip. He has never called me that before, not even when we were alone, not even when he— Never. I stared at him and tried to talk of something, anything, because he was touching me and calling me honey and I was going to start crying and tell him that I love him, that I miss him, and god, I made a mistake. I don't need whatever it was I thought Hank could offer me. I'll take whatever he can give, because there is no one else I will ever want. Ever.

But he sent me away before any of that could happen, which is probably for the best. So I went away and pulled a gun on a gangbanger in a bathroom, because I needed to remember what it felt like to face death. So I could get back some courage by facing my fears.

And in the end, all that courage I gained went to asking him on a date.

* * *

_Would you like to have dinner with me?_

* * *

I know it seemed stupid, but it was significant. He has kissed and licked and nibbled and caressed every inch of my body, and we have never had dinner alone together in a public place. Not once. I wanted him to know that I want what we had back—and I want something more.

And he was confused. Not surprising, but painful nonetheless. He told me he did not know what to do about "this." What this? Before, we were nebulous. It was how we survived. Currently, we are nothing. And I am barely hanging on. He should know what to do. He should know what to say. Apparently, the better part of a year has robbed him of that. And I cannot force his hand.

I want him to follow me into the parking lot, into the shadows, and kiss me. I want him to show up in my parking lot, knock on my door, and tell me he loves me, and the past year has been a terrible, tragic time for him.

I leave alone. I go to bed alone.

I wake up alone, my hand throbbing and tears drying on my cheeks.


	32. 310 Inside The Box

Author's Note: The end of season three. Don't worry, season four will hold the reconciliation for which you all are holding your breath. Promise.

* * *

_What are you doing here?_

_I just wanted to see you. And I didn't want you to go in without wishing you good luck._

_Thank you…for being here._

* * *

I told Robbins, and Catherine. I never told her.

When Catherine appeared in the doorway, I didn't know what to say, how to react. I felt completely exposed and vulnerable, but could not suppress a surge of gratitude. When she hugged me, I let her, even though I could not bring myself to hug her back. It would be like admitting I need someone, and even now, it's too hard to say the words or feel the emotions, even to myself.

I am grateful Catherine came to see me. I don't know if this will work. If it doesn't, eventually, I may lose everything I still have that matters to me. If it does, perhaps I will try and get back the one thing that matters to me that I have lost.

I wish I had told Sara. I wish it were her embracing me, fingers slightly cold against my back. I wish I had one last moment before the anesthesia claims me to try and put everything right again, whatever that means. To call her, to say yes to dinner, to say yes to anything. But I don't have a moment, and I doubt I could use it.

I go into the dark, alone.

Hoping.


	33. 401 Homebodies

Author's Note: I know, it's a lame excuse for a GSR quote. But this episode was so powerful and emotional for both Grissom and Sara that I had to use it.

* * *

_You okay?_

_Yeah._

* * *

But of course, she wasn't.

The rapist had found Suzanna, despite everyone's best efforts to protect her; despite Sara's attempts to get her to identify him; despite Grissom's long conversation with Suzanna's father about safety and family and what it meant to fail. Sara stood over Suzanna's dead body in her own driveway and stared at Grissom, unable to find any words. There were no words.

He was different, more like his old self, which meant he was talking to her and working with her again, but still the chasm yawned between them, and lying on the rocky ground at the bottom of this gulf was the body of a sixteen-year-old girl they had failed. She looked at Suzanna, and looked at him, and of course she wasn't all right. She hadn't been before. She never could be now.

She walked past him, walked past the dead girl, walked under the yellow tape that said, here endeth a life. She fell into her vehicle, the one into which Suzanna Kirkwood had crawled after losing her virginity to gang rape, pleading to be taken to the hospital. And she cried, for Suzanna and for every other woman and child she had processed and sat with and the dead bodies at which she had stared. And she cried for herself, and memories she never shared.

When he came home early the next morning, weary and grieving, he found her sitting on the curb outside his townhouse, her eyes glued to the sidewalk. It was the first time in more than a year that she had appeared at his home. She looked up when his shadow fell over her, and he extended his hand. Quietly, they walked into the cool twilight of his home; quietly, he led her down the hall to his bedroom; quietly, they lay down beside each other, fully clothed and with wide, dry eyes. He drew her into his arms, and they breathed together into the empty silence, waiting for sleep to come.


	34. 402 Jackpot

Author's Note: I was deeply annoyed with the "Catherine is my wife" references. I decided to ignore them. Instead, in the vein of no longer keeping secrets, I decided Grissom needed to make a revelation.

* * *

_You don't keep any secrets, Mr. Grissom?_

_I used to. I'm trying to change._

* * *

"Hello?" She sounded sleepy and slightly irritable, and he smiled at the familiar sound. It was one of the things he missed that he had forgotten about.

"Hey, it's me. Sorry to wake you."

"Hi. It's okay. How was Middle-of-Nowhere Nevada?"

"There was a lot of fresh air," he said simply. "Do you have a minute?"

Silence hung heavy. "Is this about the Kirkland case? Because I was just upset, and I guess I'm grateful that you're willing to work with me again, and I needed a friend, and I thought maybe you were one, again. That's all."

He let her rambling pass; it wasn't what he was calling for, and neither one of them was ready to discuss what it had meant to come together again, even merely for comfort and sleep. He took a deep breath.

"Actually, I called because there's something I need to tell you."

"Okay." She sounded wary.

"Do you remember when I told you that my mother was deaf? That she had a condition called oterosclerosis?"

"Sure."

"Well, it's a hereditary condition…"


	35. 403 Invisible Evidence

Author's Note: Oh, my god. _This_ episode. The one that we all rewatch twice a week because the tension is THIS thick and yummy. Yeah... Yeah. (I also had to comment on Sara's hair and clothes in this episode, because she looked sooo beautiful, and I thought Grissom might think so, too. Because his brain is basically my brain. Right?)

* * *

_I'm handing out assignments, Sara. It's not a negotiation._

* * *

"Trying to punish me?" she asked snidely when he passed her on the way to the Trace Lab. He narrowed his eyes.

"Excuse me?"

"You called me. You spilled your secrets. Don't turn on me now because you're mad at yourself for the cracks in your façade. I didn't make you talk to me."

"I wasn't turning on you." He started to walk away.

"I'm not just going to disappear," she called after him. "Even if you want me to."

* * *

_Pin me down._

* * *

Her hair was just the way he liked it—wavy and soft around her face. Her lips were dark, and the black of her clothes made her pale skin luminous. She was beautiful, and she was alone with him, and her words were familiar and completely out of context.

He stepped forward, smelling the latex of her gloves, the lavender of her hair, the coppery scent of the blood on the sheet behind her. She struggled in his grasp—a demonstration—and his body tightened; she looked deep into his eyes and said, "Yes," and he wanted it to be yes to a lot of different things, in a lot of different ways. When she said she needed to talk, he let himself hope what he would never say aloud; when she spoke of the promotion, he tried to hide his disappointment. But he could not hide his shock when she implied that their past might influence his decision. She should have known him better than that.

* * *

_I just wanted to make sure that anything happened or didn't happen between us won't be a factor._

* * *

_What didn't happen?_ he asked himself later. He was pretty sure his memory was still good, and he remembered a lot of happening, and very little not.

"What didn't happen?" He followed her out to the parking lot that night, after Warrick's testimony, after a small celebration at the lab. She had ducked out of the break room after only a small sip of the sparkling juice Catherine had provided, and spent the rest of the night closing out the homicide case he had put on hold for her. He had watched her, working alone while the others chatted happily, and wondered until it made his head hurt.

She arched an eyebrow at him, her face nearly hidden in the shadows. "What do you mean?"

"You said you wanted to make sure whatever happened or didn't happen between us wasn't a factor in the promotion. What didn't happen?"

He could swear she flushed then, but she stood her ground. "I told you, I over-talk around you. Forget I said anything."

"No, Sara," he said urgently, moving closer. "I remember a lot of things happening. I want to know what didn't."

"Oh, you remember, do you?" she asked in a low voice that made his mouth a little dry. "Funny. I remember too."

"How could I forget?" He took another step closer, until he could feel the heat of her body the way he had in the lab the day before.

"Someone could have taken your mind off things," she said, and Heather flashed through his brain. He winced a little.

"I didn't have the same luxury of ongoing distraction," he retorted, and it was her turn to flinch.

"That was a mistake," she said quietly. "Him, specifically, not what happened."

"Back to what didn't," he said, his voice purposeful. "Tell me, Sara."

"Oh, a lot didn't happen," she said lightly, and he knew he was never going to drag the real answer from her. "For instance, you've never kissed me since you got that beard."

He could not stop himself from stepping one step closer. He could kiss her now, if he wanted, but it was too dangerous. "There are a lot of things I haven't done to you since growing this beard," he said roughly, and watched something spark in her eyes. This was familiar ground, but he suspected that buried beneath the well-known landmarks were mines for which he had no preparation. He drew in a breath, exhaled.

"Going anywhere in particular?" he asked her casually.

She smiled, and it was full of promise. Her eyes tightened, and they were full of fear. "Your place?" she breathed.

He hesitated. It would not be so simple this time. Enough had transpired between them that neither could pretend that there was no emotion accompanying the sex, that no pain would accompany a separation. He had turned her down for a dinner date; how would she react if he immediately acquiesced to a proposition?

He shut his eyes tightly. "You know the way," he murmured.

They drove separately, arrived at a common destination. He started up the front walk, felt her hand slide in to his as she fell into step beside him. He squeezed it gently.

"I've missed you," he whispered, as they crossed the threshold into the cool darkness of his home. She laid a hand on his cheek, brushing her thumb over the unfamiliar beard.

"I've missed everything," she replied.


	36. 404 Grissom Versus The Volcano

Author's Note: Yeah, they're back. But you didn't really think it would be all sunshine and roses, did you? Of course not. It's Grissom and Sara, after all. (By the way, hope everyone is still good with the changes in POV, first and third person voice, and past and present tense. I just let each snippet come to me in the voice it wanted to, and they are sometimes schizophrenic...)

* * *

_Why didn't you just leave him?_

_He made a fool out of me, a mockery of our life together._

* * *

"Why did you leave me?" he asks her that night, brushing a strand of nutmeg hair out of her eyes. They cloud over at his question, and she turns over.

"You left me first," she murmurs into her pillow.

"I never did."

"Physical presence is not enough," she says softly. "You were hiding things from me, and you wound up hiding yourself. It was too hard to stay."

"Why come back, then?" he asks, a little harshly, to mask his pain.

"Because being apart from you is harder." She sits up at the edge of the bed, her back still to him. "And because your double life is easier to stomach than his."

He cannot sleep after that.


	37. 405 Coming Of Rage

Author's Note: Man, this episode pissed me off. I imagined Sara would pretty much lose it, too.

* * *

_Do you know how many people don't report a rape because they're afraid that no one will believe them?_

_Of course. It's what I was counting on._

* * *

"I can't stand it," she mutters, pacing around my living room. I set my magazine down on the coffee table and watch her over the rims of my glasses. She is dressed only in an olive-green tee shirt and very short black shorts that hug her ass, and I am torn between wanting to give her a chance to talk about whatever is bothering her and running my hands all over her long, pacing legs. She has only been my lover again for a few weeks, and I still find it hard to believe that she's mine. Again.

"What can't you stand?" I ask finally, taking off my glasses and tossing them to the table. She turns to me, and I am surprised by the conflicted emotions on her face. She is angry, but also tormented and a little scared. I stand up, cross the room to her. "Sara?"

"That little bitch lied about being raped, and I fell for it," she hisses, her arms crossing tightly over her chest. "I always sympathize with the rape victims, with the molested, with the battered and abused, and I never doubted that that was the right way to feel until today. How long is it going to be before a woman claims rape and I believe her again? How many victims has Ashley Curtwell tainted for me?"

"None," I say gently. "I know you, Sara. The next one will be just as easily and readily believed as Ashley Curtwell and everyone before her. These cases are the only ones where your heart takes you ahead of the evidence, and I don't think that's ever going to change."

"You know, I wasn't really looking for a criticism." Her dark eyes are hurt.

"I wasn't criticizing." I brush my thumb over her cheek. "I wish I understood, though. I wish I knew why you react the way you do."

"I'm a woman," she mumbles, her eyes falling to the ground. "You wouldn't get it, Grissom."

"Catherine's a woman."

"Well, we both know you think she's a better CSI, so maybe that's the difference," she snaps, jerking away from my touch. I narrow my eyes.

"She's a more experienced CSI," I say reasonably, shoving my hands into my pockets. "I didn't realize you were still angry about the Waters case."

"I'm not," Sara says with a heavy sigh. She slumps down on my couch, and I sit gingerly beside her, poised on the edge. "Not really. I hate waiting to hear about this damn promotion, and I feel like the case could have really given me an edge—except, you know, it was my case with Nick, and he's my only competition, so it probably wouldn't have done that much good in the end anyway." She gives me a sideways glance, but I keep my face impassive. She knows by now that I will not say anything about the promotion, no matter what is happening or not happening between us. These days, mostly, things are happening again, but I remain silent as the grave, much to her frustration.

"I was just saying, Sara, that I don't think the argument based on your chromosomes is valid." I settle back a little further into the couch, reaching for her hand, toying with her slender, slightly cool fingers. "I think there's something else."

She studies our hands. "And if there is? You think I should talk about it?"

"I think you should do whatever you want."

She leans over and kisses me lightly. "I think I'll wait a year or two. Then I'll tell you my secret." She is smiling, as if to imply she is joking, but her eyes are dark and full of hurt. I wish I could make the pain leave, but I'm about a year and a half too late. My hearing is back, but what we had—what we could have had—might never be. My chest aches at the thought.

"Are you going to stay?" I ask her finally, as she gently tugs her hand away from mine.

"Don't I always?" she murmurs, walking down the hall to my bedroom. The corners of my mouth twitch. With her and I, there is no always. I can hear the soft rustle of her clothes being littered down my hallway, and knowing that there was nothing beneath her tee shirt and shorts makes my body stir, despite everything. I trail after her slowly, into the darkness, to dance the old familiar dance—to let the sounds of pleasure fill the silence, when the right words cannot be found.


	38. 406 Eleven Angry Jurors

Author's Note: At last! Season 4 continues.

* * *

_You can't just ignore the human element, Grissom._

_I agree. But when you start to have feelings for the people involved, you risk your objectivity._

_So what?...I'm not you._

* * *

Nick will be perfect for this promotion. His compassion and understanding of people make him the perfect balance to my tendency to focus only on the cold, hard facts, trusting the evidence before humanity. Sara is empathetic, too, but she is also passionate and occasionally uncontrollable, which is wonderful in private and dangerous in the lab. Nick can keep his head together while identifying with others. It's a good fit.

She won't be happy with me. I know there's a chance that when she finds out, when Nick is promoted, that I will lose her again, and it is terrifying. But I have to do what's best for the lab, right?

Nick thought I was talking about cases and criminals. But I'm risking my objectivity in far more dangerous and intimate ways that I could never admit to him. I want to say, I wish I could stop. But I don't wish that at all. And that scares me more.

She's becoming the only thing that matters. How far will I go to keep her?

_I strongly recommend Nick Stokes for the promotion to lead CSI._

Thus far, and no farther.

Not yet.

* * *


	39. 407 Butterflied

Author's Note: This was my hang-up in posting further into season 4. I needed to decide what to do with "Butterflied," since Grissom and Sara resumed their relationship after "Invisible Evidence." Here is the result.

* * *

_It's sad, isn't it, doc? Guys like us. Couple of middle-aged men who've allowed their work to consume their lives. The only time we ever touch other people is when we're wearing our latex gloves. We wake up one day and realize that for fifty years we haven't really lived at all. But then, all of a sudden...we get a second chance. Somebody young and beautiful shows up. Somebody we could care about. She offers us a new life with her...but we have a big decision to make, right? Because we have to risk everything we've worked for in order to have her. I couldn't do it, but you did. You risked it all…and she showed you a wonderful life, didn't she? But then she took it away and gave it to somebody else, and you were lost._

* * *

"How could you say that?"

She tried very hard to be calm, but all the pain and fear and distrust welled up in her chest until she thought she might choke. Grissom stared at her with cool, haunted eyes, and she fought back the urge to slap him.

"You've never feigned empathy with a suspect as an interrogation technique?"

"Oh, no, you don't," Sara hissed, heedless of the camera or the possibility of someone else, hidden by the glass as she had been. "Don't lie to me, _Gilbert_. I saw your face. I heard your voice. You weren't feigning anything. You opened up—you opened up about your _feelings_, about _me_—to a murderer!"

"And what would you suggest?" Grissom countered, his voice still terrifyingly calm. "Would you like to have this discussion? Are you interested in my feelings?"

"Do you know me at all?" Sara demanded, her eyes filled with hurt. "Of course I'm interested in how you feel."

"Then pay attention to what I said," Grissom said quietly.

"Which part? The part where you said you couldn't risk everything to be involved with me?"

Grissom stared at her. "I already have."

"Then what is this about? Why are you so tortured?" She lowered her voice. "I came back, didn't I?"

Grissom swallowed. "You took away everything we had and gave it to someone else."

Sara dropped her eyes. "I didn't give anything _we_ had to anyone." She lifted her head again, defiantly. "At least, I don't think I did. It's hard to be sure, since I have no idea _what_ we had."

"Sara…"

"Do you love me?" she demanded, her face flushing. "_Can_ you love me?"

"I have no idea," he replied, thinking he was being honest. Sara bit her lip.

"You felt lost," she murmured. "How do you feel now?"

Grissom hesitated. There were no words for how he felt. Sara waited, staring at him expectantly, before twisting her hands together nervously.

"I feel as though we're standing on a cliff, and I'm constantly waiting for the wind to turn, to hurl me off the edge. There's no security in this, Grissom. I'm not even sure there's a future."

"Is that why you left?"

"It's one of the reasons," she admitted. "You shut me out; you kept me at a distance. You still do. You still are."

"I'm doing the best I can," Grissom said shakily.

Sara shook her head, her dark eyes glistening. "I'm not sure if it's enough." She left the room silently, her shoulders shaking, and Grissom buried his face in his hands.

* * *


	40. 408 Early Rollout

Author's Note: What if Grissom knew about Sara's drinking before he received the DUI call? Brass sticks his nose in, and knows more than anyone suspected...

* * *

_I thought I was coming down with a cold._

_Yeah. I, uh, understand colds…There's more problems than answers in the bottom of a bottle, believe me…I'm just looking out for you._

* * *

_What are you doing after work?_

_More work._

* * *

Jim dragged me out to an out-of-the-way bar when I finally left the lab, insisting that we needed to have a little chat. I was exhausted, and frankly, still thrown by Catherine's news about taking Sam's money, so I didn't put up too much of a struggle. He signaled to the bartender and got us both double bourbons, then cleared his throat, settling more comfortably onto the stool.

"Look, Gil," he began, and my eyes narrowed. It was never a good beginning phrase, coming from Jim. He smiled wryly at my expression. "Yeah, I know," he said, waving his hand. "But you got to hear this. Between you, me, and the wall, I'm worried about Sara."

"Sara?" I took a gulp of my bourbon. "Why, what's going on?" My nonchalance was forced, but the fear tightening my throat was very real.

"I don't know for sure, but I think she's pretty unhappy," Jim said slowly, toying with his glass. "I could be reading things wrong, I don't know. But when she came to work the other day, she was sucking down cough drops like her life depended on it."

I arched an eyebrow. "So?" I hadn't noticed she was getting sick, but maybe it was relatively minor.

"I used to be a big fan of cough drops," Jim said, studying his drink. "Right before my wife took off with one of my best friends, and my job became a living hell."

I remembered Jim telling me once about his divorce, about leaving Jersey. The light dawned abruptly and painfully.

"You think she's drinking."

"Maybe," he replied. "I don't know."

"She's not drinking," I said forcefully, without thinking. Jim turned to me.

"Are you sure?" he asked quietly. My eyes tightened. He smiled wanly. "Gil, I don't know what's going on with you and Sara, and I probably don't want to. But if you aren't in a position to know for sure, then maybe that's her problem right there. And if you are, then maybe you should know you got a whole other problem brewing."

I blinked. Someone finally suspected. Interesting.

"I should know," I said slowly. He nodded. I took another sip of bourbon. "But…I'm not sure. And if she is, I'm not sure why."

"Something else you should know, then," Jim said with an air of one getting everything off his chest. "I'm pretty sure she slipped into the observation room while you were talking to Lurie, few weeks back."

I stared at him. I was not going to admit to our conversation afterwards.

"Are you sure?" I asked hoarsely.

"Sure? No. But I have a pretty good idea. And if you're in a position to know things, with Sara, then saying what you did, about risks and such…it might have struck her the wrong way." He took a slow drink. "Know what I mean?"

I knew exactly what he meant. What I didn't know was what the hell to do about it.

"Thanks, Jim," I said abruptly, setting down my glass. "I think I have to go."

"Sure, sure," he nodded, toying with his drink. "Be smart, Gil. Women aren't your strong suit."

I scowled at him. "Thanks," I repeated, leaving him to pick up the tab.

Sara opened her door to me immediately when I knocked, face freshly scrubbed, hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was dressed in a soft green hooded jacket and black yoga pants, and she looked beautiful. Her smile, when she offered it, was warm and genuine, our painful conversation from the week before seemingly forgotten. My heart rate began to slow. Maybe Jim had been wrong, about everything. Maybe we would be all right.

"You okay?" she asked, taking my coat. "You look a little frazzled."

"I'm fine," I said, reaching out for her. I tried to lean in to kiss her lips, but she turned her cheek to me instead.

"I'm exhausted," she said quickly, starting away down the hall. "You want to just grab some sleep now, maybe talk—or whatever—when we wake up?"

"Uh, sure," I said quietly, following her into her bedroom. She tugged me down into the sheets and curled up into me, her back spooned into my chest, face nearly buried in her pillow. I listened as she fell asleep, and stared into the darkness with dry, aching eyes.

Her breath smelled like cough drops.

* * *


	41. 409 Getting Off

Author's Note: I always wondered about Grissom's little comment here.

* * *

_I haven't seen you for a while, have I?_

_You see me every day._

* * *

They have been missing one another for well over a week now. He has become accustomed to the scent of her hair on his pillows again, but she is always out when he calls, working late or working early or simply out. He finally catches her in the lab, decides to ask her rather than Catherine to process the female addict from his latest case. She agrees, and comes to him with the results, her face unusually soft, her voice cracking a little as she describes the woman's fragile appearance.

She is particularly lovely today. Her hair seems longer, her eyes a little darker, her skin slightly flushed. He can smell her shampoo, and it sends waves of unusual longing through him. He would like to see her tonight. He tries to remind her, subtly, that it has been too long.

She shrugs him off. Shouldn't work be enough?

He is afraid for her, and for himself. If she self-destructs and he is absent, how will he survive?

* * *


	42. 410 Bad To The Bone

Author's Note: Because Catherine shouldn't be the only one to respond to Grissom's injury. And because too many chapters have gone by without delicious smutty goodness.

* * *

_You okay?_

_I'm fine._

_Nasty. That kind of looks like a hickey._

* * *

I slowly pushed the collar of his black shirt away from his neck, sucking in my breath at the bruise. "Wow. Does it hurt?"

"Yes," he said shortly, starting to pull away. I leaned forward, lightly brushed my lips over the smudge on his skin.

"I'm so sorry he hurt you," I murmured, letting my lips trail down his neck, away from the bruise. "Makes me kind of glad the bastard's dead."

"Hmm," he said quietly, as my fingers found the buttons of his shirt. Inch by inch, I worked the buttons out of their holes and pulled the fabric away from his skin, covering it with warm, open-mouthed kisses and tender little licks. By the time his upper body was bared to me, his breathing was fast against my hair.

"Maybe I should get attacked more often," he jested. "You're very sympathetic."

"Don't you dare," I responded. He pulled me up his body for a deep kiss, his hands sliding under my shirt and caressing my back. Lately, everything had seemed confusing and painful, even the sex, but tonight something had shifted, and a warm, leisurely haze seemed to separate me from everything that made me question what I was doing and why. It was like the last two years vanished for a moment, and everything was simple and happy.

He stripped away my shirt, and we fumbled each other out of the rest of our clothes in between kisses and teasing touches. I lay on top of him, skin to skin, for a long moment, aligning our bodies perfectly, from toes to knees to hips to shoulders to lips. I could feel him, hard and aching, pressed between my thighs, and writhed against him gently.

"Sara," he breathed, his hands sliding down my body to grasp my hips. I lifted my head to look into his eyes, feeling the thudding of his heart beneath my breasts. I smiled.

"It's been too long," I murmured, and I did not just mean the two weeks of lonely nights that work and my own personal issues had caused us. I thought of the past two years, of the confusion and distance caused by Hank and Heather and hearing loss, and I meant it—it had been too long since I had felt this way with Grissom: safe, peaceful, loved. I didn't know how long it would last, but I craved it.

"Yes, it has," he assented, and his strong hands lifted my hips so he could glide into me, settling me slowly down on his hips. It was slow and erotic, as he gazed into my eyes the entire time, and I could not help gasping and rolling my hips as he filled me completely. It was the most delicious ache.

We moved together, arching and sliding, our bodies warm and slightly slick with sweat as passion built. I realized again how much I loved watching him tilt his head back, his throat exposed to me, his eyes tightly closed as he groaned in pleasure. I felt as if for the first time the strength in his thighs, the rough delicacy of his fingers on my skin, the sweet tug of his lips on my breasts.

"I love being inside you," he groaned into my shoulder, his voice rough and low. I moaned softly; words like these were the closest he ever came to talking dirty to me, and the sensuality of his phrasing was as erotic to me as the cruder phrasings of previous partners, simply because it was atypical Grissom, something only I would ever hear. I tightened my fingers on his shoulders.

"You've always been inside me," I whispered, giving the words my own meaning, moving my hips in a slow circle against his, pressed as tightly to him as I could be. He cried out, arching up into me. We were both so close.

"Always?" he breathed, his thrusts beginning to become erratic. I tossed back my hair and smiled down at him, tears stinging my eyes.

"Always," I replied, and with a final groan, he spilled himself inside me, hips bucking wildly into mine. As always, the sensation of him losing control sent me spiraling into my own orgasm, and I cried out his name as I fell.

As we lay together after, our breath mingling, our senses returning, he said softly, "What did you mean, I've always been inside you?"

I smiled. "Seemed to affect you at the time…and you didn't even know what I meant?"

He returned my smile. "I had a sneaking suspicion."

_I couldn't do it._

My smile fell as the words slammed back into my head, the words that made my heart turn cold every time I heard his voice, repeating them in my memory. For a moment, they had been driven away, but I should have known it would never last. My clarification—_you're always in my heart, you know, even when you're not in my bed_—caught in my throat, and I just stared at him with eyes I knew were shifting from happy to empty. A look of concern rose rapidly on his face, and his eyes flicked nervously over mine.

"Sara? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I choked out. "I'm not feeling well, actually. I should go."

He protested, tried to snatch at my wrist as I practically ran from his bed and jerked on my clothes. Finally, when I derailed his every argument and ignored his pleas for an explanation, he fell silent, watching me cautiously from the edge of his bed.

"Will you call me?" he asked in a low voice, as I turned to go.

"Sure, baby," I said, too casually, using the nickname I had never used with him before. His face tightened, his lips pressing into a hard line.

I hurried out of his home, trying to forget the vaguely accusing look in his eyes as I did so. He knew I was lying, that something was wrong. But how could I tell him that I was heartbroken because he could not offer me something he had never claimed to be able to give?

I went through a whole bottle of whiskey that night. When I left for work, I made sure I had a brand-new bag of Halls in my purse. We all have our ways of dealing.

* * *


	43. 411 Bad Words

Author's Note: This was such a cute little flirt between them that I decided to make a moment of happy.

* * *

_You missed one._

* * *

"Vixens?" he demanded later, as they tumbled onto her bed. He tickled his fingers up her sides, causing her to writhe and shriek beneath him. "One vixen is more than enough for me, Miss Sidle."

"I better be enough for you," she said breathlessly, her hands coming up to cup his face. Their laughter died as he took in the expression on her face: desire, mixed with fierce longing and shadowed with a deep sadness.

He kissed her, hard, wishing he could drive away that sadness with his lips.

"You are," he promised, hoping it would be close enough to whatever it was she really wanted to hear. "You are."

* * *


	44. 412 Turning The Screws

Author's Note: Sorry it's been so long! I was really struggling with how to end season four. You see, I actually started this series while watching season five, and then went back and wrote the first four seasons' worth, so I needed to segue from here into what I wrote for season five and have a coherent storyline. And I am very squickish about what I did here. But you'll see...and I'm sure you'll let me know how you feel!

* * *

_I'm looking for one._

_A screw?_

_Yes._

* * *

"Could you be a little more obvious?" she asks me later. "I mean, in front of everyone?" I am confused; her expression seems to imply that she's upset, until I glance at her eyes and see thinly veiled hope.

"My double entendres were certainly no worse than Nick's or Greg's," I argue. I touch the scarf she has carelessly slung over the bed, the one that was hiding the faint bite mark I left a few days before. "Don't you think someone's going to figure out what you're hiding?"

She glances at the scarf, then at me. "Only if you let the cat out of the bag, Grissom. I'm certainly not making suggestive comments in front of coworkers."

"No one's going to find out," I tell her, uncertain which one of us I am trying to convince. She scowls at me and stalks from the room.

Does she _want_ everyone to know? Or can this be anything other than our dirty little secret?

* * *

_Semen? Sex on a roller coaster?_

_The release of epinephrine and adrenaline while riding a roller coaster can produce a stimulatory effect. It enhances ejaculation._

* * *

"So have you tried it?" I ask him finally. We've been arguing on and off for days, and I'd like to try and change the topic. Unfortunately, Woody and semen and 'we'd like to be alone' and _sex on a roller coaster_ keep riding an endless train through my head that seems in no hurry to derail.

"Tried what?" He peers up over the edge of the journal he's reading, his glasses sliding a little down his nose. He is attractive with the close-cropped hair and the round lenses and the black tee shirt straining a little at his biceps. I choose not to be distracted.

"Sex on a roller coaster."

"Hmm? No."

"Then how do you know it produces a stimulatory effect? And please don't give me a bullshit 'I read it in the journal of blah-blah-blah' answer like you did with the Mile-High Club. I'm not falling for it this time."

He sets down the periodical and takes off his glasses. This close, his eyes are piercing. "I've gotten aroused on roller coasters before. I'm a scientist, so I understand the chemicals involved in both arousal and the kinds of stimulatory responses elicited by even mildly dangerous activities. I put two and two together."

"It enhances ejaculation?"

He sighs. "I have a penchant for experimentation. Why are we discussing this again?"

"Curiosity," I say simply, starting from the room. At home, a chilled bottle of vodka, a carafe of cranberry juice, and a large glass tumbler are waiting, singing a siren song of oblivion. I won't have to think about hiding my relationship or pretending I have no sex life—no life at all, actually—or the fact that Grissom wants nothing more than a convenient lay and this is all headed nowhere.

I won't have to think about anything but the burn in my throat and the swimming in my head.

"You're not going to stay?" he calls after me, and for a moment, I think he even sounds a bit forlorn. "It's been weeks since you stayed."

"Ride a roller coaster," I tell him coldly, and close the door behind me.


	45. 413 No More Bets

Author's Note: This conversation SO continued. Just like I did here. Oh, yeah. But maybe not...all the way.

* * *

_Nick said the budget for the promotion was cut. He also said you recommended him._

_I did._

_You said you didn't have a problem with me._

_I don't. I thought that Nick was the best candidate for the position._

_Why?_

_Because he didn't care whether he got the job or not._

_That's a stupid reason._

* * *

"You're a liar," she continued after a moment, as Grissom swabbed the blood he found on the upholstery. Grissom looked up with a start.

"Excuse me?"

"You didn't recommend him because he didn't care. That's the antithesis of your way of thinking. You care intensely about the job, the science—"

"And you care _too_ much," he interjected easily, still trying not to get caught up in her pain. "Nick is a good balance for me."

"Well, if Nick is so great, then why are you fucking me?" Sara demanded, scrambling out of the limo, her face flushed. Grissom followed her as quickly as he could manage.

"Sara," he said sharply, catching her wrist. "This is irrelevant. The position has been cut."

"And if it hadn't, you would have screwed me over."

"I don't owe you anything. Our relationship has nothing to do with the job."

"Owe me?" Sara scoffed. "No, Gilbert. You don't _owe_ me. You're just so goddamned afraid that someone will find out the truth that you make crappy judgments to hide it."

"Recommending Nick was not poor judgment. I don't regret doing it. I would do it again." Grissom fixed her with a stare. "What exactly is it you want from me, Sara?"

_I couldn't do it._

"I'm tired of being a secret."

"You want to lose your job? Or do you want me to lose mine?"

"There are other _jobs_, Grissom. There's only one me."

Grissom sighed heavily. "So that's it? The job or you?"

Sara crossed her arms over her chest. "That's it. You have to choose. Because if _I_ choose—if I walk away again, find someone else again—who knows? Maybe I'll wind up dead, bent over in a shower stall."

Grissom flinched as if he had been slapped. "It all goes back to that, doesn't it?"

_I couldn't do it_.

"Yeah. It does."

"You walked out on me," he reminded her. "You found someone else."

A shadow passed across Sara's face that Grissom hadn't seen before, something haunted and tinged with terror. "I told you before. That was a mistake. _He_ was a mistake."

"But leaving me, that was a healthy decision."

"Am I your girlfriend?" Sara asked hotly. "Am I your life partner? Could I ever be your wife? Or am I the bit on the side that's cheaper than a Vegas hooker? Because these days, I can't tell, Grissom. I don't see a future in this."

"Because I won't give up my career for you? Or because I won't promote you when you don't deserve it?"

"Oh, fuck you!" Sara hissed, wrenching her wrist away at last. "I don't know why I ever came back to you, to your bed. You have _never_ made me feel loved. You have never treated me the way I deserve."

"And Hank definitely gave you what you deserved, didn't he, Sara?"

Sara staggered back, a look of horror and nausea crossing her face, confusing Grissom. "How dare you."

"Sara—"

"Stay away from me!" she screamed, walking backward until she hit the door. "Don't ever touch me again!"

She turned and practically ran from the room, leaving Grissom to stare at the limo in silent despair.


	46. 414 Bloodlines

Author's Note: And this is the final chapter of season 4. It may cause some of you to go, "Whaaaa?" But Sara was acting very oddly about the rape victim in this episode, and behaves very emotionally about the girl early in the fifth season, as well. This is my explanation.

* * *

_What?_

_How many vacation days do you have on the books?_

_About…ten weeks, I guess. Why?_

_I think you should take a week or two._

* * *

I just stare at him. Of course. He wants me gone. He doesn't want to have to look at me anymore, now that I've forced his hand, now that he's chosen everything else in his life over me, just as he always has, just as I knew he would.

Ignorant bastard.

* * *

_I-I'm still on the case. I just didn't do the interview for once in my life._

* * *

How can I explain it to him? He's never listened to me, not really. He thinks because he's older, because he's colder, that somehow he's got everything figured out and he's the example to follow. But he's clueless.

I don't think _anyone_ deserves what Hank gave me.

I stare at Linley Parker, calmly describing a demon to a sketch artist. She's got balls, the kind I always imagined I would have in her place. Cool, collected, intelligent, helpful, despite being in agonizing physical and emotional pain.

When push came to shove, I hid in the closet and cried.

* * *

_When was the last time you took vacation? Never, right?_

_…Okay._

* * *

He walks away. The one thing he has always been good at.

* * *

I try to keep my head in the case. I try to keep my cool. When Kevin Coombs appears out of nowhere, brandishing a gun, I yank my own and try to keep from shooting him, despite everything inside me screaming to kill him, kill him before he hurts me. Vartann saves Coombs' life just by being there. I'm sure of it.

But I can't get it out of my head. I've shoved it down for months, and all it took was one thoughtless sentence from Gil Grissom to dredge up my worst nightmare.

_"You told her, didn't you? Bitch!"_

_He was lurching toward me, clearly intoxicated, his hair disheveled and his eyes wild. I was alone at the crime scene, packing up my kit, getting ready to follow Warrick and Nick back to the lab in the SUV with all the evidence. He appeared out of nowhere, able to track me down by the police radio, I imagined. I tried to keep my cool._

_"What are you talking about? Told who what?"_

_"She left me," he slurred. "Few weeks after the accident. No way she finds out about you unless you said something. I was fucking discreet!"_

_"You're a liar and a cheat," I said coldly. "Women have a sixth sense about those things. You have no one to blame but yourself. Go home and sleep it off, Hank."_

_He drew his hand back and backhanded me so suddenly that I had no time to react, to even try to protect myself. "Bitch! Don't you fucking tell me what to do!"_

_My head struck the side of the SUV with enough force to make me dizzy. I slid to the ground, feeling my stomach rebel. "Hank! Stop it!"_

_"You had no right," he muttered, sinking to his knees beside me and shoving me down into the dirt. The area was deserted—a strip of desert in the middle of nowhere—and like an idiot, I'd told the cops to go on, I'd just be a minute. I was completely alone._

_Except for him._

_"No right," he continued, ripping open the blue blouse I wore beneath my vest. I screamed and tried to kick him, but he hit me again, so hard I almost blacked out. As I fought for consciousness, he yanked down my pants and underwear, grinning drunkenly._

_"You need to learn your place, Sidle," he hissed, seeming almost coherent. "You need to learn that you can't just fuck with people's lives."_

_"Like you screwed with mine?" I demanded weakly, unable to keep from taunting him. His eyes blazed and he slapped me, bloodying my mouth._

_"Shut up!" he howled. "Shut the hell up!"_

_His penis was out, engorged with adrenaline and alcohol-driven idiocy. He yanked my thighs apart, the color rising on his cheeks as I struggled. One more blow to the head, and I was too weak and dizzy to fight back. He shoved himself inside me. I felt something tear, the stinging and dampness of injury. I lay there and cried until he finished, pulling out and spilling himself on my stomach. As he shoved his penis back into his jeans, he spit on the smear of semen._

_"Plenty of DNA, Sidle," he sneered. "But I'm warning you. A word to anyone, and I swear to god, I'll kill you with my bare hands."_

_He disappeared, stumbling, into the darkness._

I should have said something. I should have swabbed my own body, driven myself to the hospital, filed a police report. Anything. But I was too terrified. Not terrified that Hank would actually kill me. I might welcome it. Terrified that Grissom would reject me, and that would be it. I would never survive losing him again. So I went home and showered until the water went cold, scrubbing my body over and over. Then I wrapped myself in a blanket and curled up at the back of my closet.

Surprise. It didn't take the revelation of a rape to drive Grissom from me. Just took Grissom.

* * *

_Come on. I'll drive you home._

* * *

"You've been drinking for…how long?"

His voice is gentle, but I refuse to look at him. I won't give him the benefit.

"Months now. I don't know how long, exactly."

"Because of what I said to Lurie in interrogation?"

I laugh, and we both seem surprised at the bitterness.

"Because of the promotion, too?"

He swings smoothly into a parking spot outside my apartment and shuts off the car. I continue to avoid his eyes.

"Sara, please."

"Do you really think I deserved it? What Hank did?"

He winces.

"No. I was hurt at the time, but I shouldn't have said it. No one deserves to be cheated on."

"Do they deserve to be raped?"

I don't mean to say it, but it comes out anyway. His eyes narrow.

"Of course not. Are you talking about Linley Parker?"

I laugh again. "Are you really this stupid?"

The light dawns, slowly and heartbreakingly, across his face. "No," he breathes, and I can hear the agony. "Sara…"

"His girlfriend left him," I find myself saying. "He thought I must have told her he was cheating on her with me. I didn't, but he refused to believe me. I was all alone at the crime scene—I'd told Vartann and the others to go. He hit me until I nearly blacked out."

"Where's the file? The report? I never saw anything!"

"There's no file," I tell him numbly. "No report. No evidence."

"He used a condom? You didn't scratch him or tear his clothing?"

"He left his semen and saliva on my stomach. I washed it off in the shower. I scrubbed under my nails until they bled. I hid in the closet for two days."

Grissom turns to me with such rage that I cringe back into my seat. "You destroyed evidence? What the hell, Sara!"

"My body!" I scream at him. "My ex…my rape…my evidence! Fuck you!"

"So now you're an alcoholic? Now you drive away someone who loves you?"

"You don't love me!" I shriek, mindless of his hands grasping my upper arms, his body hovering close to mine. I thrash in his grip, sobbing. "Let me go! Leave me alone! I hate you! I hate you!"

He drags me from the car, crying and screaming, and hauls me bodily into my apartment, where he wrestles me into the bathroom. I pound at his chest, scratch at his arms, but he's too strong. He shoves me into the shower stall and turns the water on, icy and stinging. He forces me in, fully clothed, his body wrapped around mine and getting equally drenched.

The cold water shocks me back to coherency and quickly calms me, as he knew it would. I stare at him through dripping hair, knowing my eyes are wide and rimmed with red, clinging to him, trembling beneath the weight of my sopping clothes. "I didn't want you to know," I murmur, burying my face in his neck. "I thought you would leave me."

"Never," he whispers into my hair. "I wouldn't."

_I couldn't do it._

"You don't love me."

"I do," he pants, reaching over to turn off the water, his own body shaking with cold. "I do. Why won't you believe me? Do I have to lose everything else in my life to be worthy of you?"

"I need you to prove it to me," I gasp out, digging my fingers into his shoulders. "I need something tangible."

He leans over, pressing his lips over the pulse fluttering wildly in my throat. "I don't know what else to do."

I pull him down the hall to my bedroom, both of us staggering in our heavy wet clothes. I strip him, running my hands over every inch of skin I reveal.

He tries to stop me, his hands wrapping, large and warm, around my wrists. "I don't think sex is the answer, Sara. God knows it's never worked before."

"I want you," I mutter, even though I have never felt more miserable and less sexy in my life. "I want to feel _something_, anything."

He stands in front of me, nude and slightly panicked, and cups his hands around my face. "Then let me help you. But _not_ like this."

I give in, crying, breaking, and let him pull me onto the bed. He wraps himself around me, cradling my cold, wet body against his, stroking his fingers through my hair. He murmurs in my ear how much he loves me, how beautiful I am, how sorry he is for everything I went through and all the pain he caused. He tells me that I am worth more than anything to him, and that if I really want him to leave CSI or Vegas or anything else, he will. I listen to him, snuffling softly, until I finally drift off to sleep.

When I wake up, I am in a dry robe and the smell of coffee is wafting out from the kitchen. He is standing there in a robe as well, sipping from a huge mug. He offers another to me and I take it, smiling gingerly.

"I meant it, you know."

I look up at him questioningly.

"I will leave. I'll step down, I'll transfer to another shift, I'll find another job entirely. Whatever it takes. If this is what you need to believe that I do want you, that I want to be with you, then that's what I'll do." He shifts a little uncomfortably. "You've believed for months that what I said to Lurie about being unable to give up my career for someone was true. And maybe it has been. But it's not anymore."

I stare at him as tears well up in my eyes. "Seriously?"

He nods. "Seriously. I'll take out a fucking billboard announcing our relationship if—" His voice breaks a little. "If I can just _please_ not lose you again."

I surge into his arms, coffee forgotten, and kiss every inch of his face I can before covering his mouth with mine. He devours my lips, parting them and tangling his tongue with mine. I can taste coffee and the faintest hint of tears, and I pull him so tightly against me that I cannot breathe.

"I don't need any of that," I gasp out, when we part for air. "I never needed you to do anything. I don't mind keeping my love life private. I just needed to know that you cared enough that you _could_."

He strokes my cheek, smiling faintly, and nods. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure." I flash him a smile. "Work wouldn't be the same without the bug guy."

He kisses me again, and I can feel the slightest hint of arousal against my hip. "Do you want to…" I murmur, sliding my hand down to caress his hip through terrycloth.

"Every minute of every day," he confesses. "But—we should probably—"

"No," I cut him off. "The Hank thing is over, done with. I can't prove that anything happened. I don't want to live in the past, dwelling on what I can't change. I just want to be with you."

He nods, although I can see his reluctance. "If that's what you want," he says finally.

"It is," I tell him emphatically. "That…" I let my voice drop into a tone he can't ignore. "That, and you."

I lead him down the hall to my bedroom, this time for more than comfort. He takes me gently, thoroughly, beautifully, with the intensity that only Grissom has ever been able to offer me. And when I come, shattering deliciously in his arms, it is with the exquisite knowledge that where I love, I am loved in return.


End file.
